Hero Complex
by WriterJC
Summary: Story Complete! Thanks for the very nice reviews. :) When a woman Steve dated is accused of murder, complications arise that could have deadly consequences. Can the gang get to the bottom of it before it is too late?
1. Default Chapter

**Hero Complex **

**Disclaimer**: The characters used within this story do not belong to me, but were borrowed for the purposes of this story. They belong to CBS/Viacom and their associated copyright holders. No profit made, and I promise to return them un. . . well, relatively unscathed. The plot and original characters, such as they are, are of my own imagining.

**Summary**: When a woman Steve dated is accused of murder, complications arise that could have deadly consequences. Can the gang get to the bottom of it before it is too late? 

**Rating**: PG for somewhat adult situations. Nothing that couldn't be seen, or heard, on television. Even on PAX. J 

**Author's Note**: This story has minor spoilers for the episode "Jake's Women". If you haven't seen that particular episode, all that you need to know is that Steve met and briefly dated a woman. He didn't know that she was married until Amanda told him. *Special thanks to the ladies who encouraged and helped me with this. You know who you are. You all are great!*

**[he·ro]**** _noun. _1. In mythology and legend, a man, often of divine ancestry, who is endowed with great courage and strength, celebrated for his bold exploits, and favored by the gods. 2. A person noted for feats of courage or nobility of purpose, especially one who has risked or sacrificed his or her life_._ 3. A person noted for special achievement in a particular field. 4. The principal male character in a novel, poem, or dramatic presentation. 5. A priestess of Aphrodite loved by Leander (who drowned during one of his nightly swims across the Hellespont to be with her).**

**[com·plex] **_noun Latin: complexus. 1.A whole composed of interconnected or interwoven parts_._ 2. In psychology, a group of related, often repressed ideas and impulses that compel characteristic or habitual patterns of thought, feelings, and behavior. No longer in scientific use. 3. An exaggerated or obsessive concern or fear. 4. _Medicine._ The combination of factors, symptoms, or signs of a disease or disorder that forms a syndrome. _

**Part One: The Past Returns**

_Frantic footsteps echoed against concrete as legs too young to outrun the night struggled on. He ran behind them, urging them, determined that none would be lost. Then there was a sudden whoosh! Suffocating darkness closed in, pressing down like malevolent waters, blocking out all sound except the staccato thudding of his heart. Time dragged, pulling them backward, slowing their steps. _

_Every slow motion movement out toward the dim light was a step away from that terrifying place. Every heart beat was a hope at finding freedom._

_Sound came, rushing and indistinct and then he was outside. It was like breaking the surface of water. They were all around him, a dozen sets of eyes looking up. Tiny souls pleading that he tell them what to do, that they didn't have to be afraid. That should the bad man return, he would stand between them and the darkness._

_He didn't know what words he spoke, but he felt them spill out, taking pieces of him with them. But they found their targets and the young faces brightened with renewed life and a return of peace. But his heart held on to the terror and magnified it. The darkness had never left. It was calling for them. _

_He turned back and looked at its face. It was a hulking monstrosity of a building. Dark and foreboding, it belched smoke which seemed to take on a living for. It taunted him, holding the sweet sounding voices in its noxious grip. _

_He knew that he had to go back. _

_A haze washed over him and time passed. Almost too much time, and then his partner was there, begging him not to leave, not to go back. But the other voice, the one that called to his pounding heart, begging with him to save them from the darkness, was louder. He tore away. _

_"Sloan!" Fred Mancini's voice was raised, and angry now. "You can't go back in there! Back up is on the way!" _

_The words faded behind him and then he was back inside with that living smoke. The smoke that cursed him and pleaded with him at the same time. It wafted ahead of him like a siren's call. The wailing seeming almost distinct, crying for his help. He knew exactly where to go. Down the hall, and into the bowels of the building. To the place where he'd first seen them._

_They were there. Pale and sleeping. Like angels. Angels that he needed to save from the smoke. And then they were in his arms, one on each side. Their bodies as cool as night. It sent a chill straight through to his heart, but he had to keep moving. _

_The smoke pulled at him, stealing his breath and slowing him down. The tunnel was back, the darkness washing in and out. His heart pounded and his lungs begged for breath. And the smoke called, bidding him to stay and rest in its deadly embrace. But he ran on. For them. And then he was outside. He'd made it. He could breathe again. But before he could rejoice in that small victory, everything ignited and the world was on fire. The smoke, the voices and the stars all screamed. And there was no air at all. _

_No! _The word was a scream in Steve's mind as he sat bolt upright in bed. Though his eyes were wide, they were unfocused, and for several heart stopping moments he didn't see the light of day filtering in through the balcony doors; couldn't draw breath into oxygen starved lungs. Nor did he recognize the gentle wafting aroma of his father's coffee or feel the soft, though slightly damp sheets beneath him. There was only darkness and smoke and pain. 

The smoke cleared from his mind and his vision as he gradually came back to himself. His chest rose and fell erratically and his heart thudded in his chest. He leaned forward and rested his damp brow in his hands. It had been a long time since he'd had that dream. He'd hoped that it was gone for good. Last night had changed all that. 

Throwing back the covers that remained over his legs, he got out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweat pants. It was his day off, but there seemed little chance that he would be sleeping in. Studiously avoiding the framed certificate and plaque that he'd left laying on his dresser, he set off upstairs toward the smell of coffee. 

~*~

Mark turned at the sound of footsteps entering the kitchen. "Congratulations," he said, pausing in his cooking long enough to hand over a copy of the morning news, folded over to a page which showed a black and white departmental photograph of his son.  Beneath the picture was a short article regarding the award that he had been given as a part of a ceremony the night before, as well as highlights of Steve's long career with the Los Angeles Police Department.

Though Steve accepted the paper, he barely glanced down at the page before setting it aside on the counter. Mark pretended not to notice that he placed it face down. An expression that Mark labeled as half between embarrassment and something else crossed his face. 

"I was just doing my job," he said. "I don't think it was necessarily worthy of a citation from the mayor, or this." 

Mark's brow furrowed briefly in mild concern before he chuckled at his son's modesty. He tucked away the other reaction to be revisited later if necessary. He was hoping that it didn't become necessary. "Steve, you went above and beyond the call of duty. If it wasn't for your bravery, a dozen children wouldn't be alive and well and at home with their parents now. That is what you're being recognized for." 

Steve's expression shifted slightly. "I wasn't able to save all of them, Dad. At least two young girls won't have a chance to grow up." 

Mark turned away from his cooking and focused all of his attention on his son. Though the situation surrounding the kidnapping of 14 boys and girls from a local school had been short and intense, it had lasting repercussions on the community, and those officers who had been closely involved in the case. Especially Steve. Despite the fact that he wasn't the officer officially working with the FBI, quite by chance, Jose Guano had chosen him to communicate his demands to the families. 

"That wasn't your fault. You're the one who figured out it was the janitor, and you risked your own life to save the others. You did the best you could, more than anyone would have expected. And you made it possible for those two girls to have a burial, to provide their families at least with a little closure." 

"Yeah, maybe." Steve nodded, accepting his words on some level, but it was clear that he was still troubled. Plastering a smile on his face, he moved closer to the counter and peered into the bowls nearer the stove. 

"What are you making?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. 

Mark sighed, but let the change pass for the moment, and pointed to one of the bowls. "How do omelets sound to you?" 

"Sounds good. Do I have time for a run?" 

"Uh. . sure," Mark glanced around at his preparations. He could easily adjust his timing so that things would be hot when Steve returned. He felt certain that a run would help his son clear his head and shake off the resurfacing of past anxieties. If not, maybe at the very least he would be ready to talk. 

Flipping on the radio, he began to sing along as he began to add blueberry muffins to the breakfast menu in an attempt to extend his cooking time. 

~*~

Steve stepped out of the balcony doors and headed out toward the beach. It was a little later than his usual time for running, and there were more people out and about. As he set off, he passed a group of girls with blonde pigtails playing in the sand. His mind flashed to the scene in the boiler room of that old building where the two girls had been found. After managing to get away from their kidnapper, they had been overcome by carbon monoxide poisoning. They had looked like pale sleeping dolls surrounded by darkness and dinginess.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he pushed the thought away. He had gotten past this months ago. Why was it coming back now? He knew that the ceremony probably had something to do with it. But there had to be more than that. Maybe it was the fact that in his mind things seemed one-sided. 

So much emphasis had been placed on the heroism and bravery of the team and on the appreciativeness of those who had survived. There had even been a monetary reward that came with the citation for his part in saving them. It had felt as if it burned his skin when he took it. He was happy for the other children. But who was remembering Myra Blankenship and Lucy Carson? 

As he continued along the beach, lost in thought, he gradually became aware of a prickling at the back of his neck. Unsure of whether he should label it intuition or paranoia brought on by years of being a cop, he kept running while surreptitiously taking in his surroundings more carefully. 

He was running along a portion of the beach that ran behind a string of condominiums. People could be seen in parking lots, on the beach, in back yards, going through normal Saturday morning activities. He didn't spot any thing that appeared unusual. He was about to settle on paranoia when, upon glancing over his shoulder, he caught a flash from the direction of his home. 

He was too far away to catch much in the glance, but his senses moved into high alert. Nonchalantly, he changed direction and headed for home, eyes focused on the form. Now that he was looking head-on in that direction, he was fairly certain that there was a man standing on the beach, just in the shadow of the far corner of the gates of the beach house with something up to his face. Maybe binoculars, he decided.

There was another quick flash as the man removed the item and turned away, heading quickly toward the Flemlin's backyard. Steve knew that there was no way the slim form that appeared briefly from behind the gate belonged to Mr. Flemlin. Besides, they were away on a 2 week anniversary cruise. 

Steve put on a burst of speed, increasing from a mere jog to a sprint. But still nearly a minute passed before he reached the Flemlin's home. Several sun bathers looked at him oddly as he passed, but he kept going, not slowing until he reached the brick gate that separated the beach from his neighbor's patio. 

Breathing harshly, he leaned over to examine the sand, while simultaneously working on catching his breath. Foot prints were everywhere, leading right up to the squarish plot of grass at the end of the sand. There was nothing he could learn there. Moving to a standing position, he continued onto the patio and checked the outside of the house. It appeared to be locked up and secure. There was no man and no sign that he had been there. 

Resigned to the fact that the mystery would remain unsolved for the time being, he took a few minutes to pace, allowing his muscles to cool down, then headed for home. 

~*~

Mark was surprised when he heard the faint sounds of Steve's private entrance being used. It was far too early for Steve to be back yet. He glanced at the clock, checking to be sure that more time hadn't passed than he'd thought. Frowning at the confirmation of his suspicions, he moved toward the steps and headed down toward Steve's apartment. It bothered him that Steve had come back early, especially considering how troubled he had been when he'd left. He knew his son well enough to know that a troubled Steve would spend twice as long than he usually did on his run. 

Mark's mind replayed another occasion where Steve had returned early from a run. Having taken a miss step in uneven sand, he had gotten a bad sprain in his left ankle. Of course, Steve's verbal displeasure concerning the injury had been more than adequate to alert Mark to what had happened. 

Mark noted no unusual sounds at all as he stepped into Steve's living area. Just the normal movements about his bedroom. Still, intuition urged him on. Something wasn't quite right. He was halfway across the living area when he heard the phone ringing in Steve's bedroom. He reached the door just as Steve picked up. 

Steve glanced at him, acknowledging his presence before speaking into the receiver. "Hi Amanda. It's my day off, remember?"

A deep frown settled across his face as he listened to Amanda's response. "What?! Where?"  The frown quickly transformed into shock as he turned a worried gaze in Mark's direction, before refocusing on the conversation. 

"I'll be there in thirty minutes. Bye, Amanda, and thanks." 

"What is it, Steve?" Marked moved to his side, deeply concerned about whatever Amanda had imparted as it had left Steve looking more troubled than when he had left to go running. 

"Dad, do you remember the woman I was seeing a few weeks ago? The one who was married to a friend of Amanda's? Maeve Michaels?" 

"Oh, yeah." Mark remembered Steve's reaction to the relationship. "I remember her. She had an open marriage." 

"Yeah, one she didn't bother to tell me about. I had to hear the news that she was married from Amanda." 

Mark thought he sensed a touch of bitterness there. "Yeah." He nodded, willing him to continue. 

"Well, someone killed both him and the woman he was with. Maeve is the prime suspect." 


	2. Part Two

Part 2: To The Rescue  
  
Steve pulled onto the street leading to the Michaels' home. The place was distinguished by the number of departmental vehicles parked both in and near the driveway. On previous visits, his attention hadn't been much focused on the details of the house. It had been dark, and there had been another, much more engaging focus for his attention.  
  
The outside of the home was neat and well cared for, obviously by hired professionals. The exact image a couple like the Michaels' might want to present to the world. Unfortunately, the large vans marked 'Coroner' and 'Crime Scene Unit' marred that visual.  
  
Forced to park a ways back from the driveway, he brought the truck to a halt behind one of the cruisers on the scene. As he climbed out, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. It was a man, standing in the driveway across the street, operating a video camera.  
  
"Can you believe that?" he asked his father, gesturing purposefully as they headed past the official vehicles and toward the drive. The man shifted from one foot to the other at the attention as if he half-expected to be run off, but he didn't halt in his activity.  
  
"Yeah," Mark agreed, following Steve's gaze, musing the point.  
  
"Nothing like a good neighbor," Steve muttered under his breath. He didn't know what the man expected to get on tape. Lots of boring police procedure and little else.  
  
"That her?" Mark asked, drawing Steve's attention forward again.  
  
Steve turned and saw an obviously upset dark-haired woman standing near a decorative bench that sat in the corner of the yard. A tissue was clutched tightly in her palm as she haltingly spoke with Detective Ben Sternen, a newly promoted officer at the precinct.  
  
"Yeah, that's her." Steve came to an abrupt stop, and for a moment felt completely out of place. This wasn't his case. Ben Sternen had been assigned to work with Maureen Gruber. Gruber was a good officer, and he had no doubt that she would get to the bottom of what had happened to Adam Michaels.  
  
As he stood, considering what his next move should be, Maeve turned and looked directly at him. Pale and shaken, her eyes were red from crying. But as she focused on him, he saw the light of hope appear.  
  
He simply stared back at her, not sure what he felt. He only remembered the day when he'd confronted her about her marital status. They hadn't exactly parted as friends. But that didn't seem to matter to Maeve. She moved past Sternen, practically at a run and buried herself in his arms.  
  
"I'm so glad you came," she cried. "I couldn't kill Adam. I wouldn't. Not over this."  
  
Steve wrapped his arms around her reluctantly, then pushed her gently away from himself. He would do what he could to help her, but he had to make her understand his position. On several levels. "I'm not the investigating officer on this case," he said, gently. "And if I was, I would be removed as soon as they discovered our previous relationship."  
  
Maeve looked up at him, confused. Then looked from him, to Mark and back. "Then why did you come?"  
  
Steve frowned, drawing back slightly. "I came because Amanda called me and told me I should."  
  
"What are you doing here, Sloan?" Another male voice broke into the conversation before Maeve had an opportunity to respond. The question was asked with a friendly tone, but it sent slivers of apprehension up Steve's spine.  
  
He looked up and beyond Maeve, having immediately recognized the voice of Fred Mancini - the lead detective and FBI liaison during the missing children's case. Steve took a step away from Maeve, and felt his face settling into the inevitable grim lines as the salt-and-pepper haired man approached. He noticed that Sternen stood a little back from the group, almost as if he wasn't sure what he should do next.  
  
"Good morning, Fred." Steve greeted the man coolly, and nodded a greeting toward Sternen. "You know my dad."  
  
"Doctor Sloan." Fred greeted the man who stood unobtrusively at Steve's side. "I'm surprised to see your son here. I thought this was his day off." He glanced toward Steve. "Came with the award didn't it, Steve?"  
  
Steve stared back hard at the man. "Where's Mo? I thought she was working with Sternen."  
  
"She called in sick. Can you imagine that out of Reliable Maureen? But don't worry, Sternen and I will do just fine." Fred slid an oily, suggestive look between Steve and Maeve. "I'm sure you have other . . . affairs to attend to."  
  
With that the older detective turned toward his young partner. "You got everything you need, Sternen?"  
  
"Yeah, I got . . . ." The younger man's reply died as Steve cut him off, dragging Mancini a few steps away from Maeve and his father.  
  
"You have something to say to me, Fred?" Steve demanded in a low voice, tinged with anger. Something was off with the older detective, and had been for weeks, now. He had thought at first that it'd had to do with the missing kids case. But as time had gone on, he hadn't been able to get anything out of the other man aside from animosity.  
  
"Same old Sloan." Fred shook Steve's hand off his arm and smiled a derisive smile. "Not much changes with you does it? Still a slicked back pretty boy with an eye for the ladies. Still got a nose for the high profiles. Oh, and," he looked around Steve to where Mark was standing, talking quietly to Maeve. "Still dragging your father with you on your cases. Whatever works for you, pal, but this one is mine. Stay away from it."  
  
Steve's hands tightened into fists. He would love to grab the man by his collar and shove him into the nearest wall until he could talk some sense into him. But it was useless. And Fred was right about two things. This was his case, and he had brought his father along. Not for the reasons Fred thought, but there was no way the other man could know that, and Steve had no intention of filling him in. So instead of following his instinct, he impaled the other man with a hard look and stepped around him without a word.  
  
"Remember what I said, Sloan," Fred called after him.  
  
Steve didn't turn, just kept moving toward the house and Amanda. She'd called him, asking him to come here. He hoped she had a mighty good reason, because best he could tell Maeve hadn't been the one to ask her and Amanda knew how badly that relationship had gone.  
  
He felt a small amount of the tension leave him as he entered the door of the home. There were crime scene technicians everywhere, examining carpet fibers, gathering bits of evidence, going over every inch of the house.  
  
Steve sighed as he moved through the living area. He hadn't worked with Fred since the missing children's case. But he knew Fred had been a good detective, he had even worked with the man for a while after he had been promoted to the detective ranks. Maybe whatever grudge the other man had was with him alone.  
  
He followed the sound of voices into what he assumed to be the master bedroom and got his first look at Adam Michaels. He was laying sprawled on top of plush blue carpeting, a large bloody hole in his chest. A blonde- haired woman lay face down where she had fallen half over his thighs. She appeared to have been shot in the back. Neither of them were wearing shoes, but they were both dressed in business attire.  
  
That caught him off guard and made him pause. Not that he normally walked into crime scenes with a predisposition as to what the scene would look like, but this one he had. He had expected a sordid display which had ended in what appeared to be a crime of passion. These people looked like they were on their way to, or from, a business meeting.  
  
~*~  
  
"I don't like that man," Maeve said as she watched Fred Mancini watching Steve stalk off toward the house. She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered slightly.  
  
Mark followed her gaze. "He does seem to be a little upset," he agreed absently as he turned back and observed her closely. Her eyes and nose were red, obviously from crying, and she had the mildly dazed look of having received a nasty shock - such as finding your husband dead. He also noticed that she wore the proverbial 'little black dress' with a pair of strappy- looking shoes. Hardly the way he would have expected to find her that early in the day.  
  
"So you're Steve's father?" she asked, catching him looking her over.  
  
"Oh, uh, yes," Mark replied, smiling abashedly. "I was with him earlier when he got the call."  
  
"Did he tell you about us?" she asked, her face reddening slightly with embarrassment of her own.  
  
"Yes, he did," Mark said gently. "And I'm very sorry to hear about your husband."  
  
She nodded and blinked when her eyes begin to fill with tears again. For several moments, her chin quivered and she seemed unable to speak. "Thank you," she finally managed to whisper.  
  
"Why don't we go and have a seat," Mark urged, directing her toward the bench that she had been seated on before when he and Steve had arrived. "Can I go inside and get you a drink or anything?" he offered.  
  
"You're very kind." She smiled tearfully up at him. "But that isn't necessary. Actually," she looked sheepish, "If you could just stay with me. Just for a few minutes."  
  
"Of course." Mark gave her his best reassuring smile and settled beside her on the bench. "You've had a terrible shock. Is there anyone I can call for you?"  
  
She shook her head. "Just my dad. But he's in Boston at a seminar. Since it's his seminar, he can't leave right away. He won't be back in town until day after tomorrow. And this isn't the kind of thing I want to invite my friends over for." She seemed to shiver again.  
  
Mark nodded. "I can understand that. Do you mind if I ask you a question?"  
  
"No, of course not."  
  
Mark directed her attention to the man across the street with the camera. He was barely visible, standing between an SUV and a hedge.  
  
Maeve frowned a little in confusion for moment. "Oh, that's Kevin Masterson. He's been trying to get us into trouble with the neighborhood association for months now. This'll probably do it."  
  
The wheels in Mark's mind began turning. "Why would he want to do a thing like that?"  
  
She curled her hands in her lap. "He said that we were a blight on the neighborhood."  
  
"Oh." Mark thought he understood. "Have the police spoken with him?"  
  
She nodded. "Yes. One of the detectives did. He must have gone and gotten his video camera later."  
  
"Do you know if he might have seen something that might help the police figure out what happened?"  
  
She shook her head. "I don't know. They didn't tell me what he told them. Just that --"  
  
The sound of a cleared throat interrupted the conversation. Mark turned and looked up to see Fred Mancini and his partner were standing behind him.  
  
"You'll need to come with us down to the station now, Mrs. Michaels. We'd like to get your prints for the purpose of elimination, and we also need to have the powder residue tests done as soon as possible." Fred spoke gruffly.  
  
Maeve gasped a little. "Right now? Do I have to go now? In your car?"  
  
Mark could well imagine that Maeve wouldn't want her neighbor video taping as she was loaded into the back of a police car. So when he saw the look of growing suspicion on Fred's face, he spoke quickly, cutting the man off.  
  
"I could go with you," he said. Then, glancing back at Mancini. "That should be okay, shouldn't it? I'll just need a moment to let Steve know. I'm sure he'd be happy to come and pick us up from the precinct." Without giving anyone time to object, he sprung up from the bench and hurried toward the house. Glancing back at the small trio with a smile, he caught Maeve's relieved look and Fred's mutinous one. He had a feeling that Steve might not be overly appreciative of his move either. 


	3. Part Three

Part 3: A Sheltering Place  
  
Amanda, stooped near the bagged hands of the female victim of one of LA's most recent crime scenes, looked up as a pair of shoes moved into her line of vision. She recognized those shoes and followed them up to the face of her friend Steve Sloan.  
  
He acknowledged her with a quick smile which immediately turned to a frown as he gestured back toward the bodies. "I know this is an awful thing to say, but I thought they would be undressed. Is that why you called me?"  
  
Amanda shot him a telling look as she moved to her feet, but couldn't resist chastising him slightly. "Well, since you've already admitted it's an awful thing to say. . . . "  
  
She was glad that he had come so quickly, and that he didn't appear to be angry with her. With a slight gesture, she directed him toward a corner of the large bedroom that would put them out of the earshot of a couple of the technicians who were working nearby.  
  
Steve followed with a curious expression, and then listened intently as she began to speak. She hadn't been sure where she wanted to start. Now that he was right there in front of her, there was no time to decide, so she just jumped in.  
  
"Steve, I know that you and Maeve have some history together. And I know that I'm somewhat involved in that history, too." She remembered vividly the way she had accused him of being hypocritical, and of having a relationship with a married woman. He hadn't deserved to be the focus of her anger.  
  
"Amanda," he offered a reassuring smile, "Don't worry about it. I'm glad you told me."  
  
She smiled back at him, thinking what a great friend he was. His taking of the situation so well was only adding to the minor amount guilt she felt at calling him in the first place. "I am, too, especially since you didn't know. But I know that you were hurt by what happened. And I'm sure that it didn't help that I was so rough on you."  
  
His smile broadened. "I survived."  
  
"Still, I'm sorry about that. I wanted to apologize."  
  
"Amanda, it's okay," he assured her, stressing the words this time. "Okay?"  
  
"Okay." She chuckled at him, happy to have the incident off of her chest. Not that Steve had ever held any sort of grudge. In fact, when Maeve had returned a piece of jewelry that Steve had bought for her, he had offered it to Amanda. She had been touched by the gesture, and things had immediately returned to normal between them. It wasn't until after she had called him that morning that the memories had returned. Looking back, she was appalled at the fact that she hadn't apologized for her earlier accusations. In usual form, Steve had brushed the incident away, assuring her of his continued friendship. She smiled into his eyes, communicating her appreciativeness, before getting down to the business at hand.  
  
"And now for the reason I called you." She led him back over to the bodies. "I know that this isn't your case, but I knew Adam, and I really want his killer to be caught."  
  
Steve shrugged. "I don't have any argument with that."  
  
"Well, I talked to Fred Mancini and I don't think he's going to give this case a fair shake. When I told him my findings, he barely seemed to listen, almost like he's already made up his mind. I may not agree with Maeve's opinions on certain . . . things, but I don't think it would be fair if she was wrongly accused of her husband's murder."  
  
"So you don't think she did it?" Steve asked, looking a bit uncomfortable.  
  
"I don't know if she did it or didn't do it. I just know Mancini thinks she did and he's barely even looked at the evidence. He's not looking to find a killer, he's looking to find ways to prove that she is the killer."  
  
A grim expression settled over Steve's face. "So what have you found?"  
  
Amanda opened her mouth to respond, and was surprised to see Mark appear in the bedroom door. "Hi, Mark. I didn't know you were here." Though she had to admit she had expected him to show up with Steve, she was just surprised that she hadn't seen him until then.  
  
"Hi, Amanda," Mark greeted her. His twinkling blue eyes gave the room a once over, but Amanda knew that he hadn't missed a thing. He finally settled on the victims as he moved over near them. "You know, I would have thought . . . "  
  
"Yeah, us, too," Steve said, his smile broadening as Mark looked again at the position of the bodies and then scanned the room, his eyes settling on the patio door where a technician was gathering samples. Steve turned an amused look in Amanda's direction, and she knew that they could both almost hear the gears going in Mark's brain.  
  
"They were shot through the patio?" Mark asked, a frown appearing as he stepped closer to the object in question. He looked through what remained of the glass out onto the large, beautifully manicured back yard.  
  
Steve visually followed the trajectory he thought the bullets would have taken and answered. "Yeah, it looks that way."  
  
"The blood patterns suggest that the bodies weren't moved." Amanda added.  
  
Mark looked downward at the ground outside of the patio, and then peered in both directions. Then he jerked as if remembering something, and then turned and headed back the way he'd come. "Oh, Steve, I'm going to go with Maeve and the detectives back to the precinct. Will you come by later and pick me up?"  
  
Steve's brow puckered. "Sure. But Da--" Before he could speak further, Mark had made a very hasty exit.  
  
Amanda met Steve's gaze and shrugged. Mark was up to something, and they both knew it.  
  
~*~  
  
"Hi Partner. I thought today was your day off." Detective Cheryl Banks smiled a greeting at him as he approached her desk. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Easy come, easy go." Steve returned her smile and settled in the seat across the desk from her. "I'm here with Dad. He's down in booking."  
  
"Really?" Cheryl raised a brow. "Steve, don't tell me that your . . . "  
  
"He isn't." Steve chuckled, knowing without her completing her statement that she was asking if his dad was being charged. Considering the number of times he'd stepped into a situation where he shouldn't have been, it was a minor miracle that he hadn't been arrested more often. "He's here for moral support for someone else being fingerprinted."  
  
"Uh Oh," Cheryl smiled, but then frowned in confusion. "One of your cases? I really hope you weren't working today. You do deserve to rest every now and then, you know."  
  
"It isn't one of my cases." Steve assured her, then glanced around. "It's one of Mancini's."  
  
"Ugh." Cheryl winced. She knew about the bad blood that had been going on between the two of them, having been caught in the line of fire on one occasion. "Still no go with him, huh?"  
  
"No." Steve sighed. "Maybe he's just burned out. It does happen." He thought of the kidnapping case again. It had changed him; he could feel some of the previous feelings returning with just the memory. Surely the case must have changed Fred in some way, too.  
  
"Yeah, maybe." Her look clearly communicated that she had another idea of what the problem might be but was sure that he didn't want to hear it again. She had long ago told him that it was because the other detective felt as if Steve had stepped on his toes on the children's case.  
  
Steve wasn't convinced. He thought that there had to be more to it than that. He had known and respected Fred for a long time. In fact, just before the case, he'd been invited to Fred's for a sports get-together.  
  
"Well." He turned his attention to the scattering of files on her desk. Fred was a subject that they weren't going to agree on. "What are you doing?" He turned one of the folders in his direction and caught the name across the top. "Jarvis murder. You must really be bored. Last I checked we didn't have any leads."  
  
"And nothing has changed since," Cheryl assured him. "But I got the ballistics report back today -- which is a no match, by the way -- and thought I'd give it another once over before putting it with the rest of the pile. Since it's my partner's day off, a certain captain thought it would be a good idea if I got all of our current cases in order."  
  
"Oh, Cheryl." Steve felt badly that she'd been saddled with all of that paperwork because he'd been awarded with a day off that he hadn't even wanted. It hardly seemed fair that others should have to take up the slack in the meantime. "Why don't you give me a some of those. I'll look through them while I'm having a beer on the deck."  
  
"No way." She snatched the file playfully away from him.  
  
"Oh, come on," Steve cajoled, offering his best pleading smile as he pulled the file back in his direction. "Reviewing files, on the deck, with a beer. That is a vacation for me! You wouldn't deny me that, now would you?"  
  
Cheryl rolled her eyes and laughed at him, but let him have the file and several others.  
  
"Thanks." Steve smiled at her, enjoying the teasing banter.  
  
Her expression changed slightly. "Uh oh." She spoke while pretending not to move her lips. "Here comes your dad. And his um . . . moral supportee. You sure you didn't put him up to that, Steve? She looks like your type."  
  
"Oh, like I have a type," Steve shot at her before turning.  
  
"My point exactly," she said to the back of his head, and then before he could respond, she was greeting his dad.  
  
"Hi, Cheryl. Thanks, Steve," Mark said on reaching her desk.  
  
Both Steve and Cheryl stood as Mark took care of introducing a very pale looking Maeve to Cheryl. She seemed uncomfortable in the station and was avoiding Steve's eyes. Which was fine with Steve, considering. A strained silence reigned for a moment, but was quickly filled by Mark.  
  
"Steve. Maybe we should be going? Maeve has had a rough time. I'd like to get her back to the beach house so she can get some rest."  
  
Steve couldn't help it. His mouth dropped open for a stunned moment. Surely his father hadn't . . . . He caught a knowing look from Cheryl and then closed his mouth. There was no use fighting this -- at least not with an audience. Especially since his father was giving him the innocent look, the one that meant he knew full well how Steve felt but was taking advantage of the fact that Steve couldn't speak openly to get his way.  
  
Grumbling internally, he snatched the files up from the desk, bid good-bye to Cheryl and led the trio out of the precinct. At first opportunity, he and his dad were going to have to have a little chat. 


	4. Part Four

Part 4: To Protect . . .  
  
Jesse Travis peered into the deck doors of the beach house, trying to get a better look inside. The grill wasn't set up, and far as he could tell it looked like no one was even at home. He looked back at his watch. He might have been a few minutes early, but surely he hadn't misunderstood Mark's invitation to a meal the night before.  
  
Feeling a little let down, he turned and looked out toward the beach. It was nice out, maybe Mark had decided to take a walk. Steve's truck was gone, so Jesse figured he was picking up last minute items. It was getting late in the day and the number of people strolling the beach was diminishing. None of them looked like his friend.  
  
Maybe the two Sloans had decided to have a father and son dinner in honor of Steve's award. He didn't want to interfere with that. And he really couldn't blame Mark for forgetting him. It was a pretty big honor that Steve had won. He headed back down the deck stairs with a dejected frown.  
  
As he circled around the house, he thought he caught the sound of Steve's truck. He immediately brightened. Maybe he hadn't been forgotten after all. With more energy in his step, he hurried around to the front drive, arriving just as Steve cut the engine.  
  
Mark climbed out of the truck and assisted a dark-haired woman. All the while an apologetic expression lit his features. "Oh, Jesse, I'm so sorry. Something came up and I completely forgot about dinner."  
  
Some of the spark went out of his greeting. "It's okay, Mark. I see you've got a guest, anyway. We can make it for another time." He shot a weak smile in Steve's direction and was surprised at the irritation he saw warring in his friend's expression. He was obviously hiding it, but Jesse could see the tension around his mouth and in his shoulders.  
  
"No, I don't want to interrupt anything." The woman spoke up, recapturing Jesse's attention. He gave her a second look. Beneath a pale and utterly worn out look, he could tell that she was beautiful. "I can just go to a hotel."  
  
"Nonsense," Mark told her. "Maeve Michaels, this is Dr. Jesse Travis. And he's practically family. Jesse, Maeve is going to be with us for a couple of days. She has had a very bad shock and I really don't think she should be alone right now."  
  
Jesse felt himself brightening at Mark's description of their relationship, but he sobered at hearing that something awful must have happened recently to their house guest. "I'm pleased to meet you," he told her. Then turned to Mark, "I'll call later."  
  
"Uh, Jess. Could you stay for a little while?" Mark asked.  
  
"Sure." Jesse was happy to stick around, despite the fact that he hadn't missed the look Steve sent in his father's direction.  
  
The whole group headed into the house. Mark immediately led Maeve off to the far guestroom. Jesse wasted no time in cornering his friend and business partner.  
  
"So, what's going on? Who is she?"  
  
Steve shot him a look that clearly said he wasn't interested in talking about it. He dropped a stack of files on the coffee table and headed out toward the deck.  
  
Jesse could smell blood and wasn't letting him off the hook. "Come on, Steve. Tell me. And what happened to her? What bad shock?"  
  
Steve steadily went about the task of setting up the grill.  
  
Jesse was undeterred. "Maeve Michaels." He repeated the name silently in his mind. Then,  
  
You know that name sounds really familiar for some reason. Was she one of your cases before? Maeve . . . " Suddenly Jesse gasped. "Maeve!!"  
  
"Shh!!" Steve put a hand to his lips. "Could you at least keep it down?"  
  
"Sorry. She's the one? The one you were smitten with. The married . . . " Jesse frowned. Mark had said that she'd received a very bad shock. Suddenly this didn't seem like so much a fun game. "Why is she here, Steve? What happened?"  
  
"Someone murdered her husband," Steve replied.  
  
"Whoa!" Jesse was stunned. That was the last response he'd been expecting. "And they're letting you work the case?"  
  
"No. But since when has that stopped dad, before?"  
  
"Good point." Suddenly a horrible idea occurred to him. "Are you a suspect?"  
  
"No, Jess." Steve sighed and his tension seemed to increase. "She is."  
  
"Oh." Jesse was beginning to understand. "So, do you know why Mark asked me to stay?"  
  
Steve offered a humorless smile. "Obviously he thinks that there's safety in numbers." Having completed the task of setting up the grill, he turned and headed for the steps that led down to the beach. "Tell dad the grill is started, would you, Jess? I need some air."  
  
~*~  
  
Mark was putting the finishing touches on the meats when he heard Jesse come in behind him. He turned and smiled at the younger man. "Is he still upset?" he asked, feeling as though he was hiding out from his own son.  
  
"Maybe a little," Jesse told him.  
  
Mark made a face. "Oh. Deep down he understands why I did it. He just needs to get used to the idea." He gestured toward a cupboard with a shoulder. "Could you grab another platter for me?"  
  
Jesse retrieved the item. "Is the cook out still on?"  
  
"Sure. Why not?" As far as he was concerned, they all still had to eat. And since he'd gotten the burgers and steaks and chicken prepared to go over the fire, it seemed only logical that they cook them that way. There was more than enough for everyone.  
  
A voice in the doorway caught his attention. "Mark. I don't think I can rest just yet. Do you mind if I take a walk on the beach?"  
  
Mark turned to see Maeve standing there, wearing an old outfit of Carol's. "Of course not. Go right through those doors and the deck will lead you down."  
  
"Thanks, Mark." Maeve smiled at him sadly and headed off.  
  
Jesse turned widened eyes on him and muttered under his breath, "Mark, Steve's out there."  
  
Mark chuckled softly, and responded in an equally quiet tone. "I know. And your point?"  
  
"You're meddling!" Jesse gave him a sly look.  
  
Mark gave the younger doctor his most innocent look. "Did I make Steve go out to take a walk along the beach?"  
  
"No, I guess not."  
  
"And did I encourage Maeve to go?"  
  
"Well, no. But . . . " Jesse looked confused for a second. "At least not that I saw . . . "  
  
Mark just smiled. "Grab a couple tomatoes out of the refrigerator, would you please?"  
  
~*~  
  
Steve found that he couldn't just sit in his usual spot. He had to be moving, expending energy. That translated into walking out to the water's edge, pressing at the damp, packed sand, and backing up every so often to avoid his shoes being washed over by the waves as they flowed onto the beach.  
  
His body carried out the movements necessary on autopilot. His mind was busy elsewhere. Maeve Michaels was in his home, probably sleeping, in the guest room. This was the woman who had played him for a fool -- toying with his emotions while knowing that she wasn't available. Fidelity had meant nothing to her. And his father had invited her to stay for the weekend.  
  
It was just too much, the wrong case and at the wrong time. Those two little girls were still in the back of his mind, nipping at his conscience. He knew that there was no way he would ever be able to spend that award check. In his heart, it just felt tainted.  
  
And then there was Fred. The other detective's animosity was sure to escalate once he discovered that his prime suspect was staying under the Sloan roof. He shook his head and blew out a breath. His dad sure knew how to stir up a pot.  
  
His mind flowed back to Maeve. He had to admit that he didn't think that she could maliciously kill her husband. Especially not because she thought that he might be having an affair. It just didn't fit. He firmly believed that she was incapable of killing Adam Michaels and his assistant Tessa Cohen. If Amanda was right about Fred, and he didn't doubt that she was, Maeve was going to need his and his dad's help.  
  
He groaned inwardly. Why did his dad have to be right about this? Now he was going to have to forgive him. Maybe even apologize for the cold shoulder that he'd given him all the way home. He groaned again, this time aloud.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
He turned, mildly startled, at the sound of her voice. The crashing of the ocean had drowned out her approached. "Yeah. I'm okay." He looked back out toward the ocean as she came up beside him.  
  
"I couldn't rest," she explained. "I just kept seeing --" Her voice began to waver, and she broke off. She swallowed and then focused out on the tumbling waters for a moment before beginning again.  
  
"Steve, I am sorry that you were hurt. But I'm not sorry that it happened. And now I realize that I've invaded your home -- It didn't occur to me that you lived here with Mark. As soon as I've gotten myself together, I'll call a cab and . . . "  
  
"No." Steve interrupted her. "Don't do that. I have the downstairs unit. It's basically a separate apartment. But regardless, you still don't have to leave. You're welcome here." He offered a smile that was surprisingly genuine. He didn't agree with what she had done, but he couldn't turn her away as someone who needed help. She was just as much a victim as the two who were lying in the morgue.  
  
The genuine smile soon transformed to a look of dismay as Maeve burst into tears. What had he done wrong? He moved toward her and placed his hands on her arms, hoping to find a way to calm her.  
  
"I'm sorry," she managed to say between sobs. "I'm just a bit of a mess today. Your being so kind and forgiving just pushed me over the edge." There was a self-deprecating smile somewhere in the tears. She sniffed and tried to pull herself together.  
  
"It's okay." Steve smiled back at her before pulling her into his arms. "I'm just that kind of a guy, I'm told." She held on to him for a long moment and then pushed gently away.  
  
She laughed a little. "I can't get too used to that."  
  
Steve smiled. "Friends. Friends can hug." He wiped at her tears and gestured back toward the house. "You know, the grill is probably just about ready. My dad makes a mean hamburger. Feel like heading back?"  
  
She nodded and turned with him toward the beach house. As she did so, she dropped one of her shoes. It tumbled down the grassy dune and a little way out toward the water. They both laughed, and Steve stayed her motion to go after it, telling her that he'd get it.  
  
The shoe wasn't very far away, no more than a couple of yards. Steve quickly retrieved it and found that she'd followed him. He smiled and handed the white sneaker to her. As she grabbed hold of it, one of her feet seemed to sink suddenly in the uneven sand, causing her to stumble slightly toward him. He reached out reflexively to catch her. That was when he heard the crack of weapon's fire. The burning edge of something sliced along his side just as the world tilted and they both went down.  
  
They hit the sand in a tangle of intertwined arms and legs. He immediately began to maneuver his body between hers and the properties along the waterfront, using the slightly raised mound of granulated earth to his advantage.  
  
Screams erupted from farther along the beach as the sparse occupants ducked behind umbrellas and coolers, some pointed to a construction site a few houses over from his and his dad's home. Steve scanned the area, searching for any indication as to who the shooter was or if there would be more shots forthcoming. Moments later, the sound of squealing tires against pavement registered.  
  
For several more heart-pounding moments, tension reigned as both he and Maeve remained frozen in position. Waiting. Then, deciding that the shooter was likely gone, he moved to bring them both cautiously to a standing position. He was surprised at how unsteady he felt, but brushed the thought aside and persevered toward full upright.  
  
"Steve!" Maeve called his name, her tone frantic. "Steve, you . . . !"  
  
He turned his head toward her, and the world seemed to tilt abruptly, before righting itself. He blinked, and shook his head, struggling to focus on her voice. It seemed to be coming from a very long way off. He dazedly followed her frantic gestures downward. The right side of his once gray shirt clung to him, saturated with an alarming amount of dark red. Pain receptors suddenly kicked in on overdrive, and the world began a slow spin. 


	5. Part Five

Part 5: Good Deeds, Punished. 

Mark and Jesse were in the kitchen when they heard the sound. For a moment both of them turned and looked at one another in confusion. 

"Did that sound like a gunshot to you?" Jesse asked. 

Mark didn't answer him, but moved toward the doors that led out to the deck, his concern deepening with each step. Jesse wasn't far behind. He stopped and squinted urgently through the glass. The fading light made it difficult to immediately identify the ducking and running forms. But it was enough to send a stab of justification to the fear that lurched through his heart. 

He noted absently the sound of skidding tires. It was difficult to make out where exactly the sound was coming from. And it didn't matter. He hadn't found Steve in his initial perusal of the beach front. 

"Do you see them, Jess?" he asked, pushing open the doors and stepping out onto the deck. Maybe the younger man had spotted them when he couldn't. He leaned across the railing, forcing himself to go more slowly. 

"No." Jesse's response sounded as frustrated and frantic as he felt. "Maybe we should go down there." 

Mark was already moving in the direction when the words left Jesse's lips. He'd taken one step down the stairs leading to the sand before looking back out toward the ocean when he saw two people rising from among a cluster of grassy dunes a couple dozen yards beyond his property line. He could just make out their forms. 

He recalled that Steve had been wearing jeans and a gray shirt, both of which faded to near black in the half light. But Maeve had worn one of Carol's baggy pink outfits. Even against the setting sun, the color was identifiable. An audible sigh of relief rushed out of him. They were okay. But then Steve faltered, and Mark's heart faltered with him. 

All thoughts of possible danger to himself fled his mind as he turned and took the remaining steps at a run. He could only think of getting out there, to Steve. Worse, he couldn't tell what happened next, as he could no longer see them once he reached the lower level as the dunes and privacy hedges blocked his view. All that he could do was run across the loose sand, worrying and hoping. 

~*~

When Maeve's hand clamped against Steve's arm, the contact acted as a stabilizing factor, bringing him back to himself. They were still out in the open, and though he had somehow managed to instinctively clamp a hand over his injured side, blood still escaped through trembling fingers and dripped to the sand at his feet. 

The red droplets blurred against the sand momentarily before he shook his head and regained his focus. He set his sights on the visible portion of the beach house, and with Maeve's arm wrapped about his shoulder, they set off toward their goal. 

Each movement across the uneven sand was a torment, but they couldn't stop. He couldn't give in to the weakness that settled over him like a blanket, making him feel as though every step he took would be his last. But he forced his fading legs to continue to trudge through what felt like ever thickening sludge. Finally the gate which led into their back yard appeared blearily before them. The narrow opening looked impossible to navigate in his current state, half-supported by Maeve. His vision was starting to darken around the edges, and he wasn't sure that he was going to be able to make it much farther. But he had to. They weren't safe, yet. 

"Oh, God . . . ." Mark met them at the gate, his voice fading at the amount of blood visible on Steve's clothing. Worried over a venus bleeder, he tried to get Steve to stop so that he could examine him. But Steve pressed on, attempting to speak as he did so. 

"In . . . side . . . " 

The potential danger that they remained in out in the open registered vaguely in Mark's mind. Not because of fear for himself, but fear that his son might be wounded further and the instinctive knowledge that if Steve thought that there was danger, he wasn't going to allow himself to be cared for until he thought that they were reasonably safe. So he hurried to Steve's other side, and helped him along, hating the pain that each gasped breath bespoke as they continued on. 

Steve began to sag more in their arms. What little strength he might have used to get across the sand to the house seemed to be fading, and Mark knew that there was no way that they could get him up the steps to the patio. He headed directly for Steve's entrance, and though he didn't see Jesse, he yelled for him to open Steve's patio door. 

The younger doctor must have been thinking along the same lines because before they reached Steve's patio, the doors opened and the younger doctor was standing there. As they moved inside, Mark noticed that a couple of folded blankets had been formed into a pallet on the floor, and his doctor's bag was sitting open nearby.

"Easy, Son," Mark urged as Steve's legs seemed to give out just as they reached the prepared padding. He'd known that was coming, having been unsure of how Steve had managed to stay upright and helping for so long considering the blood loss and the stamina necessary to approach the house from the shore. Jesse stepped forward to help take his weight, easing him very carefully to the blanketed area, where Steve simply collapsed, exhausted. 

Mark felt the same way. Seeing his son hurt stole every ounce of energy he had. But he forced his mind to function, and looked across at his colleague. "Ambulance?" he asked. 

"On its way. Police, too," Jesse responded, shooting him a glance as he went to work on cutting through the material of Steve's shirt. "How ya holding up, big guy?" Jesse asked, his eyes roving over Steve's pale, drawn features.

"How . . . you think?" Steve managed to gasp out. He then reached a bloody hand weakly toward Mark. 

Without hesitation, Mark covered the hand Steve had touched him with and focused intently on what he was trying to tell him. 

"Maeve. . . in danger." 

"Okay, Son," he replied to his rapidly fading offspring. He'd almost forgotten Maeve's presence, she'd been so quiet. He glanced back to where she sat huddled a small distance away. If the shots had been meant for her, she might have been hit, too. "Are you hurt anywhere?" he asked her, gently. 

She shook her head wordlessly, her gaze never leaving the movements of Jesse's hands as he skillfully separated the material covering Steve's abdomen and got his first look at the wound. There was little response in her eyes. He had the feeling that she had seen one thing too many that day. She might not even know if she was hurt. He needed to see to her needs, check her over for himself, but he also needed to know how serious Steve's injuries were. 

"Jess?" He turned back to the other doctor. 

"It looks like the bullet plowed a pretty deep laceration, Mark." Jesse spoke without looking up as he applied a large bandage over the wound. "It's going to need to be irrigated, and he's lost a good bit of blood. He's going to have a nice new set of sutures to add to his collection." Mark knew the details that Jesse was leaving out such as shock due to trauma and blood loss, and the possibility of infection. But he knew also that Steve's chances were pretty good. 

He released a breath and squeezed Steve's hand. "You're going to be fine," he reassured him. But the reassurance was just as much for himself as for Steve. Patting his son's hand once more, he left him to Jesse's care while he went to assist Maeve. 

~*~

Steve opened his eyes and blinked slowly up at the ceiling, knowing immediately that he was in the hospital. His brain felt muzzy, like it was floating around in cotton, but the events of the evening were there, playing back in a rapid stream of sound and visual images: the struggle to save Maeve from the sniper at the beach, his father running toward him, Jesse looking down at him, someone talking about volume expanders and antibiotics. 

He turned his head and took in the room, happy to find that he was only connected to a single IV, half full of clear liquid. That couldn't be too bad considering his stays often included being attached to some kind of monitoring machine or other. But whatever was mixed in with the fluid being delivered intravenously into his system packed a wallop. He'd managed to surface for less than a minute and already his lids were beginning to droop again. His body was free, floating in the clouds with his brain. . . 

A loud smack as the room door was pushed forcibly open jerked him back to wakefulness. It seemed that only a moment had passed. There was really no time to consider it further as Detective Fred Mancini entered the room on the heels of the noise. He looked less than thrilled as his eyes settled on the room's only other occupant. 

"I see you're awake. Good." He walked up to the side of the bed. "Maybe you can tell me why Maeve Michaels is staying at your house?" 

Steve blinked sleepily back at the other detective and noted the coldness of his return gaze. His initial instinct was to tell Fred that it was none of his business. But some logical portion of his sluggish brain reminded him that he had no such luxury, especially after what had happened that evening. 

"She's a friend," he said quietly. "We didn't think she should be alone. Her dad is her only family, and he's out of town and won't be back until Sunday." 

"Just a regular Good Samaritan aren't you, Sloan?" Fred shot back. "How good a friend was she? You two looked mighty cozy this morning." 

"What are you getting at?" Steve demanded, feeling his temper beginning to rise. Sparring with the other detective was also having the added effect of bringing him further into wakefulness. But their bickering wasn't going to help solve the case. There was a killer on the loose, and unless they found him, Steve had a very bad feeling that someone else was going to end up dead. That someone, he feared, would be Maeve. 

"But I hear some people like it better when they're married. Makes it more fun, more exciting." Fred continued on as if Steve hadn't spoken. 

"I'm not one of those people," Steve ground out angrily. The action pulled at the stitches in his side, causing them to sting a little. 

Fred's eyes widened in disbelief. "Not what I heard." 

Steve refused to the give that line of discussion another moment of his time. There were other, more important, issues at hand. "Look, Fred. Whatever you've got against me, put it aside. There's a woman in danger, here. You need to assign someone to Ms. Michaels. Whoever was shooting at the beach was probably gunning for her." 

"I've got a different theory," Fred objected to his reasoning. "I think there is a possibility that she could have had an accomplice. ME's report says that time of death for both victims was at about eight o' clock this morning." He stared at Steve as if waiting. 

Steve shook his head. "And?" 

"And where were you this morning at eight o' clock?" 

"You think I'm a suspect?" Steve gaped in amazement. "You're kidding me." 

"I'm just investigating all of the possibilities, Sloan. A woman like that -- male _friends_ would do a lot for her. So, your whereabouts at eight? Unless I need to go to the captain about your hindering an investigation." 

"I was at home in bed, sleeping." 

"Alone?" Fred taunted. 

"Yes. Alone." Steve resented the other man's accusation, and made sure that it was clear in his tone. 

"Anyone corroborate that?" 

"My father." 

"Oh, yeah. Your dad." Fred made it sound as if Mark was hardly a credible alibi. "No vested interest there. I guess that's one of the perks of living with daddy. Okay. Now tell me about your . . . uh . . . friendship with Ms. Michaels, and don't leave anything out." 

"You know where I was, and you know we were friends!" Steve's entire body tensed in his anger, further aggravating the wound that was attempting to heal. As far as he was concerned, his and Maeve's relationship had nothing to do with Mancini's investigation. He was convinced that the man was just digging for information because he could. Steve knew that anything he shared about himself and Maeve would be all over the precinct by morning. It was dirty, and he refused to play along. 

"Oh, so did you meet before or after your little accident in the parking lot at Mickey's grocery? You filed the report yourself, just about a month ago. Said it was all your fault, seems you backed into her?" 

Steve closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down as he realized how this was all starting to look. "In case you haven't noticed, Fred, I was shot today. A sniper was firing from somewhere on the beach front. Ms. Michaels was standing very near me." 

"Yeah, you were grazed. Pretty lucky don't you think? Either the shooter was a bad shot, or a really good one." 

A flood of indignation coursed through him, and he wanted nothing better than to lunge out of the bed and demonstrate physically how little he appreciated the inferences that were being made. He was saved from having to check the reaction by the opening of the room door. 

Mark appeared, his expression immediately altering when he noted Fred's presence. He seemed to sense the tension as well as he looked between the two of them. The frown morphed to concern when his eyes settled again on Steve, before returning to Mancini. Though he had yet to say a word, Steve knew that his father had accurately accessed the situation. 

"What's going on?" Mark asked. 

"I'm conducting a murder investigation," Fred replied. "And if you'll give us a moment, Dr. Sloan . . . ." 

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" he asked. 

"I'm afraid we need to get these details while they're still fresh." 

"I know of that necessity," Mark assured him. "But Steve is under the influence of some fairly strong medications. As a physician, I'm recommending that you hold your remaining questions until a later date." 

Fred looked as if he might argue, but then closed his notebook, and headed out of the room without another word. 

Mark watched him go, then approached the bedside. "What was that all about?" 

Steve shook his head, feeling himself relaxing even as Fred left the room. "I think I've just become a suspect in the murder of Adam Michaels." 

"Steve, no." Mark looked increasingly worried. "Based on what? Amanda said that the murders happened this morning. You were home with me." 

"I know, Dad, but I don't think that matters." 

"Can't we do something? Talk to the captain?" 

"It's his investigation, and a case can be made that he's just following the evidence." 

"What evi . . . . " Mark's eyes widened with understanding. "Oh. Well, he won't find anything because there's nothing there to find. It's just an unfortunate set of coincidences." 

Steve smiled, warmed by his dad's confidence in him. So many people that he knew had strained relationships with their fathers. But he could talk to his dad about anything, at anytime. He knew he could count on him under any circumstances.

The smile dimmed as he remembered the day's earlier disagreement. "Dad . . . . about my attitude when we left the precinct . . . ." 

"Steve, there's no need." Mark rested a hand on Steve's shoulder. A sheepish expression crossed his face. "Besides, I did sort of spring her on you. And if there is anyone who should be apologizing, it's me." 

"You did surprise me," Steve admitted. "But I understand why you did it, and I agree." He stifled a yawn before he could continue, "Speaking of which, how is Maeve? I'm surprised Fred didn't go after her, too. With the releasing of tension, his body was headed back toward that cottony feeling. He fought it, and blinked several times in an attempt to maintain focus on his father. 

"Oh, he did try." Mark's eyes twinkled with mischief. "But your dear old dad has a few tricks up his sleeve, yet." 

Steve chuckled slightly, finding the effort to remain awake becoming more and more difficult. "You're hiding her somewhere in the hospital, aren't you?" His voice sounded slightly slurred to his own ears. 

Mark's return smile was hazy, and seemed to be coming from a far distance. "She needed to get some rest, and I made sure that it's happening. And speaking of rest, you need to get some, too. That is, if you're planning on going home tomorrow." 

Steve knew a reply formed in his mind, but the only sound that he was aware of that escaped him was a sigh. After that, everything faded away to peaceful nothingness. 


	6. Part Six

Part 6 : Frustration & Surprise  
  
"I've got it, Jess!"  
  
Jesse blinked at Steve's grumbling outburst as he tried to help him out of his car, but persisted anyway, providing a guiding hand to help him to a standing position. Steve could be a little ornery when he wasn't feeling well, although Jesse knew that it was more than his injuries that brought on the bad mood.  
  
He looked across the top of the car at Maeve and shot her a reassuring smile. "He gets this way when he's not in control of the situation. But we love him, anyway."  
  
Maeve chuckled, and lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender as Steve shot a murderous look between the both of them.  
  
"I can make it into the house on my own, thank you very much. It was just a flesh wound." He took a long step out of Jesse's grasp. Jesse knew that the movement had to hurt, but he covered it very well. Only the tightness about his shoulders betrayed him.  
  
Jesse thought to remind him that it was a little more than a flesh wound, that the bullet that had ploughed a furrow along his side had caused considerable blood loss and had taken a number of internal and external stitches. But then he looked over at Maeve and changed his mind, deciding to use another line of reasoning.  
  
"I'm sure you know all of the hand-outs by heart, which means you know that you need to take it easy for a couple of days. No strenuous exercise. No running, no diving. No . . . "  
  
"I do know what to do." Steve continued to complain as they all moved slowly up the walkway toward the front door. "You've drilled them into me so many times that they're practically ringing in my ears."  
  
"Good," Jesse teased. "I'm glad you know, 'cause there's gonna be a test."  
  
Steve paused, and the slightest hint of a grin appeared. He released a small sigh and the tension in his shoulders relaxed a bit. "I want to check the place out before the two of you come in."  
  
Jesse didn't like the sound of that. Steve didn't need to be romping up and down all of the different sets of stairs that made up the Sloan home. "Sorry. No."  
  
Steve's previous moment of good humor evaporated. "What do you mean, no? Dad probably hasn't been here since we all left yesterday. I need to make sure that the coast is clear."  
  
"It's not your checking that I'm worried about, it's your checking it alone. We're coming with you. And you're watching my back while I do any necessary strenuous stuff."  
  
Steve seemed to be fighting an internal battle for several moments, before turning back toward the steps leading up to the front door. "Fine," he muttered tiredly, before placing a protective hand over his side and making the journey up the brick steps.  
  
Jesse remained behind him as silent support if he needed it. He didn't think an outwardly extended hand of aid would be appreciated. Once inside, they made the journey through all of the rooms of the house. Jesse had insisted on doing Steve's apartment last, mostly because that was where he wanted Steve to stay.  
  
Thankfully by the time they'd reached that point, Steve was exhausted and it took a little less convincing than Jesse had expected. Knowing that the lazy boy was going to be much easier on abdominal sutures than was the bed, he got him set up there, and even covered his knees with a blanket.  
  
"Just great. Thanks, Dad," Steve muttered.  
  
"Your sarcasm wounds me," Jesse returned. "Mark entrusted me with getting you home. How's he going to ever trust me again if I don't do all the things that he would do? Now, howzabout a good night huggie?"  
  
"I'm warning you, Jess. Touch me and draw back a nub."  
  
Jesse just laughed and placed the remote control and the telephone nearby. "Call me if you need anything. I'll be right upstairs."  
  
Steve's only reply was a grunt.  
  
-- --  
  
Jesse reached the top of the stairs to find Maeve busy clearing up the kitchen. She looked over at him sheepishly as he entered. "Sorry. It's the least I could do since Mark and Amanda are going to my place to pick up things for me. Besides, I feel as if I'm to blame for what's happened. And now for all of this food spoiling."  
  
Jesse looked around at the remains of the meats that Mark had been preparing the night before. The chicken and steaks were a total loss, but he seemed to recall that Mark had slid the platter of formed hamburger patties back into the refrigerator.  
  
"Well, Mark and Amanda should be back before too long. Why don't we whip up something for lunch? I'll just go start up the grill and then come back and help out in here."  
  
Maeve's smile was relieved and appreciative.  
  
Jesse returned her smile. He knew what it was like to need to feel useful, as if he was helping in some way. Especially under such circumstances as the ones that she was facing. He was sure that Steve hadn't told her that he was now a suspect in her husband and his assistant's murders, but he was fairly certain that she knew that the investigating officer was suspicious of her.  
  
As he approached the balcony doors, his smile faltered. There was crime scene tape along the beach and extending to the area beneath the house. The forensics team had been looking for the bullet that had grazed Steve and investigating the area for other bits of information. Maybe eating outside wasn't such a good idea, after all.  
  
~*~  
  
"Amanda, I really appreciate your meeting me," Mark said as he deftly detached the crime scene tape and fitted a key into the lock of the Michaels' front door. "Maeve wasn't ready to come back here, yet and well, I'm not sure I'd be good at . . . uh . . . "  
  
" . . . picking out women's clothing?" Amanda finished for him. But the look that she gave him was far too knowing. "Admit it, Mark. You want another look at that crime scene."  
  
Mark grinned sheepishly. She knew him well. That or he was becoming transparent in his old age. "Yes, and you got me," he confessed. "I would like another look around. And I'd really like a word with the neighbor."  
  
"Isn't that him?" Amanda asked. "Not shy, is he?"  
  
Mark turned to follow the direction she was pointing in. Sure enough, the neighbor was there, standing in his garage opening, blatantly staring. That gave Mark a thought. If this man watched the house as much as it seemed he did, maybe he had seen something on the day of the murder. Something that may have been missed when he was questioned previously.  
  
"Amanda, why don't you go on inside while I have a talk with him?"  
  
"Sure." Amanda smiled indulgently and took the keys and Maeve's list from him.  
  
"Thanks." Mark returned her smile and set off across the street. As he approached the man began moving back toward the insides of his home.  
  
"Wait. Excuse me? Mr. . . . uh. . . Mr. . . " Mark was embarrassed to admit that he couldn't recall the man's name. He searched his memory as he continued to advance on him.  
  
"Masterson," the man supplied, eyeing him suspiciously. "What are you doing over there? Isn't it a crime scene?"  
  
"Well, yes," Mark admitted. "But I'm a consultant with the Los Angeles Police Department." He pulled out his wallet and showed the identification that they'd issued him. He ignored Masterson's intense examination of the document and continued, "I just wanted to check out a couple of things. And I wanted to have a word with you. Are you a part of the neighborhood watch in this community? I noticed that the signs were very well placed as I drove in."  
  
Masterson looked up and brightened. "Yes, I am. I'm the president, in fact. I'd like to think of myself as the unofficial eyes around here. I've always believed that if one doesn't watch out for his neighbors, then no one will."  
  
Mark nodded. "Uh huh. Well, that's a good attitude to have. We should watch out for each other. And I'm curious. On yesterday morning, did you notice anything suspicious across the street at the Michaels' residence?"  
  
"Aside from all of the police vehicles, you mean?"  
  
"Of course, aside from them."  
  
"Well, no. I had another personal matter to attend to, so I wasn't home on the morning in question. I arrived back shortly after Mrs. Michaels did. I saw her car pulling into the driveway. That would have been at 10:20."  
  
"I see." Mark smiled, storing away the information the other man had communicated. "What time did you leave that morning?"  
  
"7:28."  
  
"How can you be so certain of the exact time?" Mark was curious.  
  
"Because that's the time I always leave. It's a recurring appointment every fourth Friday, and the drive is 45 minutes. I like to be punctual."  
  
"Just where was this appointment, Mr. Masterson?"  
  
"Free & Clear Intestinal Health. In Santa Monica. I have a monthly hydrotherapy session. It works wonders for clearing out the old to make way for the new. If you're looking for someone, I'd be happy to refer you."  
  
Mark stared at the other man for a beat, never dropping his smile, then, "I hear that there were some issues with the Michaels' that the neighborhood association became involved in."  
  
"Oh, yes. There were. They just have to be different. For one thing, they refused to use the lawn service that everyone else uses. The lawn care provider chosen by the neighborhood association is certified environmentally safe. And then there are the plants that they've chosen. They were on the acceptable, but not preferred list this year, which means that they will be unacceptable next year. So, what did they do? They have them planted this year! They're perennials, Doctor Sloan! Do you know what that means?"  
  
" . . . uh, I think . . . "  
  
"They'll still be there next year!" Masterson seemed to have found his element and continued as if Mark hadn't said a thing.  
  
" . . . that's what I thought . . . " Mark tried to cut in.  
  
"That means we're going to have to go through the process of having them removed in order to bring them into compliance. I don't think . . . "  
  
"Mark!" Amanda called from the side of her car, drawing his attention away from the ranting Masterson. She held her pager aloft. "I've got to go. I've been called to another scene."  
  
"Uh . . . Excuse me," Mark waved a hand for attention and was surprised when Masterson immediately quieted.  
  
"You have to go?" he asked.  
  
"Uh, yes. I'm sorry. But thank you for your help."  
  
"No problem. Come back anytime. And don't forget to let me know about that referral."  
  
Mark smiled then waved and headed off down the driveway. He saved his sigh of relief for when he reached the street.  
  
~*~  
  
Steve was woken from a light doze by the sound of footsteps on the way down to his apartment. Mildly irritated at the fact that he'd actually fallen asleep, he turned to see who was descending the stairs.  
  
"Hey, Steve." Jesse's spikily styled head appeared. He was carrying a lap tray laden with a bowl, a saucer and a bottle with a straw sticking out of it.  
  
"Hey, Jess." Steve shot him a look. "Please don't tell me that's broth and toast."  
  
"Okay, I won't. But bear in mind that it's designed to keep you hydrated. Repeat to yourself that your body needs this. Besides, you need to take your meds with food, and this was the best I could do for the moment." Jesse looked around, noting that the television wasn't on and that there was no book in the process of being read. He laughed as he settled the tray across Steve's lap. "You actually took my advice and got some rest? I'm touched."  
  
"I didn't have much of a choice," Steve replied, disgruntled. "It snuck up on me." The meal was exactly what he expected. Boring. The two small pills sitting on the napkin beside the bowl made him feel a little depressed. And the little red and blue balloons all over the straw made him feel like he was five years old. "But someday, when I'm all grown up, and can stay awake, I'm going to get to go upstairs and do stuff like the big people."  
  
Jesse gave him a wry smile. "It's normal to feel a little tired, Steve. And you really don't have to use the straw if you don't want to. I just thought the balloon ones were your favorites."  
  
Steve half chuckled, half sighed, torn between amusement and frustration. "Jesse, I appreciate your help. It's just that there's a lot going on right now, and I feel like I've been side-lined. I know dad is out there somewhere investigating -- regardless of that cover story about picking up stuff -- trying to find the real killer. This person has already murdered two people. He shouldn't be out there on his own."  
  
"Come on, your dad is a smart guy, Steve. If he thinks a situation is going to be too dangerous, I'm sure he'll call, or just get out of there."  
  
"Oh, right. I almost forgot who I was talking to. You're just as bad as he is sometimes."  
  
"And things have always turned out fine."  
  
Steve pressed Jesse with a look.  
  
"Well, mostly," Jesse corrected with a grin. "And Mark did say he'd be here by 1 o'clock, which isn't too far off. I need to run to the store to pick up a couple things to go with the hamburgers. I should beat Mark back. Do you need anything?"  
  
"A beer?"  
  
"I don't think so, buddy," Jesse replied. "Why don't you give him a call? It'll make you feel better."  
  
Steve looked at the phone thoughtfully.  
  
~*~  
  
"Oh, thank you, Amanda! Excellent timing." Mark shot her a gratified look as he reached the opposite of the street.  
  
Amanda paused in handing over a small piece of luggage, the list and the keys to the house. "Pardon?"  
  
"Never mind. You're in a hurry." Mark smiled and placed Maeve's items into the trunk of his car.  
  
Amanda shrugged. "Okay, Mark. See you later."  
  
"Bye, Honey." Mark watched her go and turned and headed into the house. He decided to take a quick look around before heading toward the room where the murders had taken place.  
  
His first stop was the kitchen. It was meticulously neat, with the exception of coffee in the coffee maker and the tell-tell signs that the place had been dusted for prints. He approached it, picked up the decanter and noted that the liquid rose to the 4 cup mark. His brow furrowed as an idea occurred to him, prompting him to use a handkerchief to remove the filter compartment and check the amount of grounds inside. There was a pre- measured packet nestled in the space. Just enough for 4 cups of coffee. As the model was very similar to the very basic one he had at home, he figured that there was no timer. Someone had made coffee the day before and not drank any.  
  
Pondering that, he moved away from the device and continued to scan the room. His eyes settled on the refrigerator. There was a note there. He took a closer look. A receipt from Happy Maids Cleaning Service dated for the day before the murders. Attached to the receipt was a yellow post-it note thanking Mrs. Michaels for being so generous and informing her that the repair man had come, but that he'd needed a part. The note was signed by Jerri with the image of a wide-eyed smiley face. He chuckled at that, and continued on through the house.  
  
As he was wandering into a small guestroom, his phone rang. He reached into his pocket and drew it out. "Mark Sloan."  
  
"Hi, Dad." Steve's voice sounded in his ears, and Mark smiled in response. He was always happy to hear from him. "How is it going?"  
  
Mark ducked out of the small room into a larger bedroom and found that it had a bathroom that adjoined it. "Well, I've discovered that someone made a fresh pot of coffee, probably yesterday morning considering the cleaning lady was here the day before. I don't think they had a chance to drink any."  
  
"So you think Adam Michaels was making coffee for his assistant?" Steve asked.  
  
"Makes sense to me," Mark replied. "Also, there was a note that the repairman had come that same day. It was left by someone named Jerri from Happy Maids Cleaning Service."  
  
"What kind of repair do you think it was?" Steve's voice questioned.  
  
"Doesn't say," Mark replied distractedly as he checked out the answering machine in one of the guestrooms. "That's a little odd," he murmured to himself.  
  
"What's odd, Dad?"  
  
"Well," Mark stood and took in the room. While neatly kept, there was something odd about it. Maybe it was the touches like the alarm clock, which was set, or the answering machine at the bedside, or the cordless receiver to a phone sitting on top of a chest of drawers. There were also toothbrushes in the adjoining bedroom. "Did the Michaels' have someone living with them?"  
  
"Not that I know of. Why?"  
  
"It's one of the bedrooms. It looks a little . . . lived in, I suppose."  
  
Steve was quiet for a few moments. "Is it one with sorta greenish curtains?"  
  
Mark looked toward the window. "Yes, it is. Did it seem that way to you, too?"  
  
Steve blew out a sigh. "That's the room we were in, Dad, when we . . . uh . . . "  
  
It took a moment for what Steve was saying to sink in. "Oh! Maybe they kept the master bedroom separate, for themselves." He felt the need to leave the room, and made his way back out to the living area. Having concluded his tour, he started for the master suite and was brought up short by a sound from outside. It sounded as if someone was running water.  
  
Moving toward the door, he opened it and leaned out. A young man dressed in dark blue khakis and work boots was moving away from the side of the house carrying a bucket. He settled in the grass near one of the stepping stones that were a part of the yard's design, reached into the bucket and grabbed out a brush and began scrubbing.  
  
"Steve, I've gotta go. The gardener is here, and I'd like to talk to him. I'll call you back."  
  
"Okay. Bye, Dad."  
  
Mark hung up thoughtfully, wondering at Steve's real reason for calling. He then proceeded on out the door, calling to the gardener as he went. As he neared he discovered that the young man was wearing headsets. He tapped him lightly on the shoulder.  
  
The man looked up, startled and dragged his head phones off. An ear- blistering wave of heavy metal leaked from the tiny speakers. "Dude! You scared me."  
  
"I'm terribly sorry," Mark hastened to apologize. "I didn't mean to frighten you." He pointed back toward the house. "I was just taking a look around and I heard you out here. I'm Mark Sloan. Are you the gardener?"  
  
The man nodded energetically. "Yeah, one of them. Andy Keffer." He smiled in a friendly manner and went back to his scrubbing. Mark was thankful that he also cut the power on his discman.  
  
He knelt near him. "You do know what happened here, don't you?"  
  
Andy shrugged, his expression saddening. "Yeah, I heard something happened to the guy. Is Mrs. Michaels okay?"  
  
Mark smiled reassuringly. "I think she will be, but she's a little shaken up. That's what I'm doing here. I'm trying to help her."  
  
The young man's sad mood swung back to jubilant. "What are you? Some kind of cop or something?"  
  
Mark chuckled. "Not exactly. I am a consultant with the LAPD, though. How often do you come out and work on the yard?" He looked around at the greenery. It really was lovely. He thought it looked healthier than Masterson's lawn across the street. "It looks great, by the way."  
  
"Thanks!" The young man smiled enthusiastically. "But, I can't take any of the credit for that. Findley did all of the work here. He owns the company." He picked up one of the containers in a nearby hamper of gardening tools and handed it to Mark. "He even makes his own fertilizers."  
  
Mark nodded, taking the bottle of brownish-green liquid. It was slightly damp, but he refused to dwell on it. "What are you doing there, with the stones?"  
  
"Findley likes them white. That's my job. A few days after he does the treatments I come back and scrub the stones and stuff. The fertilizer can stain the cement and bricks, oh, and clothes." The young man pointed toward the bottle that Mark still held, "So you might want to be careful with that."  
  
"Oh." Mark carefully handed the bottle back.  
  
The young man smiled. "This cleans the stones and brickwork without hurting the grass and plants."  
  
Mark looked at the next stepping stone in the arrangement and noticed small brownish-green stains. He then looked back at the one Stuart was cleaning and noticed that all of the stains had been removed. "That stuff works pretty well."  
  
"It's called Bio-chem. Environmentally friendly. I use it a lot."  
  
"Maybe you should talk to Mr. Masterson across the street. He is a little worried about the type of chemicals you're using. You could certainly put his mind at ease."  
  
Andy laughed. "You're kidding, right? That guy's brother is trying to get an exclusive lawn contract with the neighborhood association. When people around here started seeing what Findley could do, they talked to Mrs. Michaels. She's been referring people left and right. She even helped him get this big contract out at an apartment complex on Fairfield."  
  
Mark grinned. "Is that right? I'd imagine an exclusive lawn contract around here could be fairly lucrative."  
  
"Oh, yeah. Big bucks."  
  
Mark chuckled. "Well thanks for your help, Andy. I need to go back inside for a minute." He was half across the yard before he stopped and headed back toward the young man. "Do you have a business card or anything, just in case?"  
  
Andy reached damp fingers into his pocket and handed over a no-frills card. "Tell Findley I sent you, okay? Maybe he'll give me a raise."  
  
Mark laughed at the young man as he headed back into the house. He headed directly for the master bedroom this time. He found himself back at the patio window which contained the bullet holes made by the gun that had been used to kill the two victims.  
  
As he looked out at the back yard of the home, which was equally as well manicured as the front, he noticed a small squarish box mounted to the side wall of the house. His brow crinkled as he tried to get a better look through the glass.  
  
He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him, thinking to ask the young man if he knew what the item was. "Andy, what do you --"  
  
"Dr. Sloan, what a surprise seeing you here." Fred Mancini smiled at him, but there was no humor in his gaze.  
  
"Oh. Hello, Fred." Mark greeted the detective with a half smile. "I was just looking at a couple things --"  
  
"Unfortunately, you weren't invited to look at a couple things. I have a report that you were seen with items taken from this crime scene."  
  
"I beg your pardon?" Mark frowned at the other man. "I was only gathering a few items for Mrs. Michaels."  
  
"So you admit to removing items from the crime scene?" Fred persisted.  
  
"No, I was simply retrieving . . . . " Mark tried to clarify his position, but the detective was no longer listening.  
  
"Mark Sloan. I'm sorry to have to do this to you. But I'm placing you under arrest for trespassing and interfering with a police investigation. You have the right to remain silent . . . "  
  
Mark gaped as the man approached, turned him, and slipped a pair of metal cuffs over his hands. The rest of what Fred said was lost as his mind buzzed at the surprising turn of events. As he was led outside, past a shocked looking Andy, and past his car toward Fred's, he saw Kevin Masterson across the street. His video camera was up to his face. He had the nerve to wave. 


	7. Part Seven

Part 7: Never A Phone When You Need One  
  
Steve quickly punched in Jesse's cell phone number and waited impatiently for him to pick up. After the fourth ring, his voice mail message started. Disconnecting in disgust, he levered himself gingerly up out of the lazy boy, hit the redial button and then set off for the stairs.  
  
He couldn't believe that Fred had arrested his father! It was bad enough that the other police officer seemed to have it in for him, but to mess with Mark was too much. He needed to get a hold of Jesse, tell him to forget the groceries, so they could all go down to the precinct and get his dad. And after that, he planned to beat Fred to a quivering pulp, whatever it took to find out what he had ever done to merit this kind of behavior.  
  
As he made his way up the stairs, he heard footsteps hurrying in his direction. Along with the sound of footsteps came the ringing of a cell phone. He halted halfway up the second flight, staring in frustrated disbelief as Maeve appeared, holding Jesse's phone in hand.  
  
"I heard it ringing, and didn't know if I should answer it. I was going to bring it to you."  
  
"Don't bother. I'm the one who's calling." He continued up the few remaining steps, waiting for the voice mail to kick in again. He didn't have time to wait for Jesse to come back. There was no way he was allowing his father to remain in custody a second longer than necessary.  
  
"Dad's been arrested," he tersely told the voice machine. "I need to go get him." He disconnected and settled the phone on the table in the hall. In the same motion, he picked up his keys and his cellular.  
  
"Mark's been arrested? Why?" Maeve sounded shocked as she followed him toward the door.  
  
"I'll tell you on the way," Steve replied over his shoulder.  
  
"Wait a minute." She grabbed his arm, making him pause for a moment. "Should you be driving?"  
  
"I have to go get my father. I'm not going to sit around here and wait because Jesse is taking his time perusing the fresh fruit section!"  
  
"I wasn't suggesting that you should." She plucked the keys from his hand. "I'll drive. The last thing your father needs is for something else to happen to you."  
  
Steve considered arguing, but she raised a brow at him as if daring him to argue her point. He couldn't think of one. Regardless of how angry he was at the moment, he had no business behind the wheel of an automobile when he had what amounted to schedule II narcotics in his system.  
  
"All right." He nodded. "Let's go."  
  
~*~  
  
Jesse smiled at the pretty cashier as he paid for his items. He tried to imagine Mark's surprise when he discovered that he'd gotten fresh spinach greens for the salad. He was sure that Steve would gripe, but that was okay. It was part of the fun of putting them in.  
  
He walked energetically out of the doors, already planning his come backs to the expected complaints. He pressed the remote entry button to unlock his car, thrilled to have gotten such a great spot near the front of the store. That made up a little for the minor amount of guilt he felt for actually driving to a place that was practically across the street. His treasured space still put him at less than a mile driven. How much damage could that short distance do to the ozone, anyway?  
  
He was waiting behind an older Volvo, tapping his fingers to a Judas Priest CD when he noticed a familiar looking vehicle drive past. Not having paid attention to where it had come from, he couldn't be certain that it hadn't pulled out of Mark and Steve's driveway, but he thought it sure looked a lot like Steve's truck.  
  
"Nah." He shook his head. Steve wouldn't be out trying to drive while taking Percocet. One of the reasons Jesse had chosen it as a pain killer was for its sedative effect. Steve wouldn't be able to avoid getting some rest. Feeling proud of himself, he pulled out of the lot behind the Volvo and then drove the small way to the beach house.  
  
When he pulled into the driveway, he was still smiling. It rapidly faded. The truck was gone. He reached automatically for his cell phone and came up empty. Realization dawned and he smacked a hand against his forehead. He'd left the device in the house.  
  
He climbed out of the car and rushed toward the front door. He was halfway there when he realized that he had no keys. Swearing softly, he ran back to the car, climbed behind the wheel and tried to think where Steve would possibly go. No way he'd left Maeve at the house alone. And surely he hadn't gone out to do any investigating on his own. That was beyond crazy.  
  
But he'd seen Steve when he was worried for Mark's safety. Crazy wasn't far off point. And he had been worrying over it when he left. And he'd promised to call his dad . . . . Suddenly, Jesse's own anxiety increased tenfold. He had to talk to Steve. Now.  
  
As he started the car and headed back out toward PCH in search of a pay phone, he cursed the times and the prevalence of cellular technology. He was hard pressed to find one. He'd gone several miles in the general direction that he thought he had seen Steve's truck go when he found one at a small specialty shop.  
  
"I hope you have a real good excuse, buddy," he murmured as he rooted around in his pockets for the requested change. "Otherwise soft restraints are definitely in your future." Waiting for the connection to go through, he thought about what he'd just said. A good excuse was a bad thing, too. A good excuse would mean that something had indeed gone very wrong.  
  
~*~  
  
Mark sat quietly in a chair to the side of Fred Mancini's desk, pretending not to notice the rumble of voices coming from Captain Newman's office. He supposed that was one of the disadvantages of having a desk so near the superior policeman's office, the noise level could become loud when the man was irate. At the present moment, the captain was exemplifying the word for his detective.  
  
Mark focused on his hands, which lay cuffed in his lap. He tried not to see the metal bracelets, looking beyond them to a stain on the leg of his pants. Probably a bit of fertilizer from the Michaels' gardener.  
  
He looked up as he caught Cheryl moving in his peripheral vision. She smiled reassuringly in his direction, before answering her phone. When he'd initially been brought in, Cheryl had been rummaging in a filing cabinet. She had done an almost comical double-take, before abandoning whatever task she'd been about to simply look on in shock.  
  
"Steve. Call Steve." Mark had urged, just as Mancini gestured that he turn. Fred had then released the cuffs, turned him and reattached them. Mark had only just gotten settled before Newman appeared. He took in the situation at a glance and gestured that Fred proceed him inside. Less than a minute later the raised voices had begun.  
  
Mark startled when the Captain's door opened and he stuck his head out. "Banks! Get in here!"  
  
Mark winced. The man's volume was still a bit on the high side. His eyes lingered on Mark for a moment as Cheryl approached. She shot Mark a look that clearly indicated her reluctance to enter the lion's den. The door closed behind her with a solid thud.  
  
Though things remained quiet from the other side of the barrier, Mark still fretted. Cheryl had told him earlier that Steve was on his way. Based upon the average drive time from Malibu, he knew that time was running out. Steve should be there any minute. Mark could well imagine what his son's reaction would be. But he would simply have to reason with him, explain the situation. Everything should be fine then. He hoped.  
  
The door opened again, and this time Fred appeared there, but the captain hung back in the doorway. The detective removed something from a pocket that Mark recognized as keys. He stood as the other man approached wordlessly and made quick work of releasing his hands.  
  
"Thank you, Detective Mancini," Newman said conversationally. "You may go. I don't want to see you again until after your scheduled appointment."  
  
"Yes, Sir," Fred muttered with more than a little resentment. The look he shot in Mark's direction was ripe with barely restrained fury.  
  
Mark opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it. There was nothing he could say in this situation. His attention was soon drawn away by the captain's words.  
  
"Dr. Sloan, if you would please?" He waved him toward his office. Mark did as he was requested and proceeded the other man inside. Cheryl was still seated in one of the chairs in front of the desk. She traded a mildly uncomfortable look with him as he settled in the seat beside her.  
  
"First of all," the captain began. "I'd like to apologize for the actions of Detective Mancini. I'm sure that you can understand that he's been under some stress lately."  
  
"Yes. I can understand that." Mark was eager to agree. Obviously the man had more to say and he wanted to know what it was.  
  
"Detective Mancini has been removed from this case and it has been reassigned to Detective Banks." The man paused a moment before continuing. "Lt. Sloan has proved himself to be a fine detective and an asset to this precinct. But I'll expect Detective Banks to investigate this case without bias, wherever the evidence leads her. Do you understand what I'm saying, Doctor Sloan?"  
  
"Uh, yes. I believe I do," Mark replied.  
  
"Good." The captain smiled at him. "I'll also expect you to back off on this one. Mancini was right about one thing. It looks very suspicious for you to be wandering around a crime scene, even removing things from the house, especially when there is a possibility that your son may somehow be involved in the murder."  
  
"But Steve wouldn't --" Mark started to object.  
  
"I didn't say I believed it." The captain cut him off. "But it's just the type of thing defense attorneys use to create reasonable doubt. Now, I have every confidence that Detective Banks will get to the truth of the matter."  
  
~*~  
  
As Maeve pulled into the parking space nearest the door in the detective's lot at the back of the precinct, Steve felt his anger growing. He wanted to climb down out of the truck, storm into the precinct and find out what was going on with his father. Unfortunately, his newly received stitches didn't allow for much storming, and he was forced to ease more carefully out of the truck.  
  
Maeve had gotten out of the driver's side and rushed around to help him. But he'd stubbornly pressed on, at least getting himself down before she could reach him. Some protection he was proving to be.  
  
He scanned the lot as they walked toward the back entrance. It was no where near shift change or lunch, so there was fairly little activity. But he still checked the adjoining areas, ensuring that nothing looked out of place.  
  
As they moved nearer to the door, he heard it open and turned to see Fred Mancini bearing down on him. He barely had time to register the glazed fury in the man's eyes before two meaty fists grabbed at his lapels. Caught off balance, he could do little to lessen the force with which he was shoved against the cement building. 


	8. Part Eight

Part 8: Rituals of Bonding  
  
An instantaneous shaft of pain tore across his side, and he was certain that every ounce of blood drained from his face. For several heart stopping moments, he thought he was going to be physically sick. But then the haze cleared, and he focused on Fred's words.  
  
"Are you *trying* to ruin my life, Sloan?!" the other man demanded, his grip tightening in the fabric of Steve's shirt, adding insult to injury with regard to the wound in Steve's side. "Is there anything you won't try to take?!"  
  
Steve drew in as much of a breath as he could, using the anger that fired through him as strength. "What are you talking about, Fred?" he demanded. "If you've got a beef with me, you take it up with me. You leave my father out of this!" He would have used force to move the other man away from him, but he honestly didn't think he could at the moment.  
  
"This isn't about your father! This is about you and me."  
  
"When you arrested my father, you made it about him. What the hell is your problem?"  
  
"Oh, don't worry about your precious dad, Sloan. The captain let him go. Said my arrest wasn't legit. Told me to go for counseling! What? Do you have him in your pocket, too?!"  
  
Steve felt something relax inside of himself when he heard that his dad wasn't locked up in a cell someplace. But he still hated the fact that Mark had to endure it. He had to get to the bottom of this situation with his co- worker. "What's the matter with you, Fred? We used to be friends. What happened?"  
  
Fred relaxed his hold a little, seeming to respond a bit to the earnestness in Steve's tone. But the warring anger in his eyes was still evident. "I can't believe you're asking me that."  
  
"Why wouldn't I be?" Steve replied, locking gazes. "You've got me pinned up against the wall. By the way, isn't this supposed to be my move?"  
  
Fred stared back at him. "Hell, I taught you this move, Sloan." It was an old joke, from when Steve had originally joined the detective's squad, but neither man smiled. And then, Fred blinked. He released his grip on Steve and backed away.  
  
"So, you going to tell me what this is all about?" Steve sagged against the wall, crooking his arm protectively against his aching side. He was beginning to feel unsteady, and wondered if sitting wouldn't be a good idea. A vague warning started in the back of his mind, but he couldn't pin down its origins.  
  
Fred stood a few feet away, refusing to look in his direction. "Seen Stella lately?"  
  
Steve frowned, wondering if he was imagining things. Did he know some Stella besides the obvious? "Your wife? No. Not since the game at your place. Why?"  
  
Fred turned sharply and pinned him with a probing look. His expression changed suddenly. "Jeez, Sloan! You're bleeding!"  
  
Steve followed the other man's gaze downward and noticed the large patch of red along the side of his shirt and on his sleeve. It occurred to him that this couldn't be a good thing just about the time his legs seemed to abandon him and he started to slide slowly down the wall.  
  
Fred hurried toward him, guiding him downward as the back door slammed open. The vague warning that had been floating around Steve's mind came to the fore. Maeve. He'd been wondering what happened to her. It became apparent as she and the cavalry, in the form of several officers, his father, Cheryl and the captain, poured out of the door after her.  
  
Chaos ensued. Two of the officers grabbed Fred's arms and yanked him back and away. He seemed too stunned by the growing stain on Steve's shirt to react to the restraint.  
  
Mark broke through the group and settled on Steve's injured side, trying to assess the damage, while Maeve appeared on his opposite side, quietly fretting. Cheryl was right beside him, asking if he was okay and could tell her what happened.  
  
The captain looked on, ordered the men to get Fred inside, so he could handle the situation.  
  
Steve ignored all of the questions that were launched at him, and addressed Captain Newman. "Wait. Let him go. He was just trying to help me."  
  
Everyone paused. Even Mark halted for a moment in his checking of Steve's wound, but he didn't say anything. Maeve looked like she wanted to argue and Cheryl looked more than a little doubtful.  
  
Newman asked, "Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes Sir. I'm sure."  
  
Newman looked to Mark. "He going to be okay? Do you need an ambulance?"  
  
"No," Steve spoke up for his father.  
  
Mark shot him a look, then turned back toward the captain. "We'll need to repair a couple of his sutures, but he'll be okay."  
  
Newman looked thoughtfully back toward Steve then gestured at the officers. "Let him go." Then to Fred. "Detective Mancini, I think you were leaving."  
  
Fred looked at Steve for a long moment before turning and leaving without a word. In his wake, the sound of squealing tires echoed around the parking lot. Jesse's car appeared coming along one of the rows and then he pulled to a rocking halt. He got out and ran toward the group that was starting to break up.  
  
"You've got to be kidding me," he said.  
  
Steve smiled wanly up at him. "Hi Jess."  
  
~*~  
  
"I don't know why I even bother." Jesse grumbled as he placed the final bandage on Steve's side. "In fact, I don't even know why I should release you. You're just going to bounce back in here anyway." Though he kept his tone light, and he hoped, anger free, there was a bit of irritation simmering below the surface that he just couldn't shake off.  
  
"I didn't do this on purpose," Steve replied defensively. "I don't just go out of my way to injure myself."  
  
"You sure?" Jesse asked. "Because I could have sworn that I just released you from this place this morning. I even drove you home and gave you meds. I only left the house for thirty minutes, and the next time I see you you're bleeding."  
  
Jesse removed his equipment cart from the side of the examination table as Steve started looking for a way to sit up. He managed it with some difficulty, grunting as he allowed the minimal assistance Jesse offered.  
  
"Right." Steve resumed his argument once in a better position. "I asked some maniac to shoot me yesterday. And today --" he broke off, and started looking about the room. "Today was an accident. Have you seen my shirt?"  
  
"Your shirt is a total loss," Jesse replied, quickly brushing the question aside as he grabbed a hospital gown and handed it to his friend. "Besides, everyone knows how Detective Mancini has been --"  
  
"Who's everybody?" Steve demanded, halting in his unimpressed perusal of the gown. "You don't work at the precinct." He passed the gown back. "Can I have a scrubs top instead? Goes better with the jeans."  
  
"Only if you can convince me you want to try lifting your arms over your head a couple times for fashion," Jesse replied. He continued as Steve wordlessly took the gown back. "No, I don't work at the precinct, but . . . " He paused a moment, trying to remember where he'd gained that bit of information about the other officer. "Amanda told me. And I heard a couple of the other cops at the scene. That guy's got it in for you, Steve. And nobody is buying that he was trying to help."  
  
"Well, he was," Steve shot back, having shrugged his way into the gown and making his way down from the table. "Can I go now? I've got a few things to do."  
  
"Yes you can go, now. As long as those few things don't require your getting out of the lazy boy."  
  
"Does going down to Dad's office to borrow a shirt meet with your approval?"  
  
"Sure. I was headed that way myself." He opened the door and gestured that Steve should precede him. He ignored the frustrated look that passed over his friend's face as he continued in his questioning.  
  
"So about this Mancini guy. He arrested your dad and busted your stitches. I don't understand why you're defending him."  
  
"Jesse, I am not defending him. And you know I don't like what he did to Dad. But I'm not going to have him brought up on assault charges for doing something that I've done dozens of times myself."  
  
"So you admit something happened?" Jesse jumped on the suggestion. Sutures didn't just come undone on their own, and he felt like he was finally getting somewhere.  
  
"I never said anything didn't. If I was in better shape and I'd've gotten to him first, I would have done the same thing to him! But I wasn't. And he saw me first. Bottom line, there was no malicious intent to do harm. And when he noticed there was a problem, he tried to help. Now, are you satisfied?"  
  
"Well, not entirely." Jesse grinned to soften the words. He'd seen Steve in action, and he could picture just the move he would use. "But I think I understand."  
  
"Glad to hear it." Steve shook his head with a wry smile. The smile faded as he continued, "I think he's having problems at home. He asked me about his wife, Jess."  
  
Jesse frowned. He hadn't seen that coming. "Why would he do that?"  
  
"I was at his place for a cook out a few months ago. Stella is a pretty friendly and outspoken woman. I got there early and helped with a couple of things, and she joked around about it a bit. I really didn't think anything of it."  
  
Realization dawned. "Oh. You don't think he thinks that . . . . " Jesse couldn't believe it. He'd seen how Steve had reacted with Maeve.  
  
"I don't know," Steve replied. "Maybe he does. And if that's true then I think Cheryl may be on to something." 


	9. Part Nine

Part 9: Confrontations  
  
"Cheryl, again, I really appreciate your doing this," Mark said as they pulled into the Michaels' subdivision. "It was very thoughtful of you to offer, and I could just as easily have taken a cab."  
  
"It's really no problem, Mark," Cheryl insisted. "Besides, the LAPD is part of the reason your car is still here, so . . . ."  
  
Mark chuckled, and waved the comment aside. "I could hardly hold the rest of the force responsible for the actions of one man. Besides, from a certain view, he did have a point."  
  
Cheryl shrugged, not committing either way.  
  
"But it has been quite a day," Mark continued, focusing on the house as it came into the view. "And it was a fruitful trip, either way you look at it. I noticed a couple of things when I was here earlier that I was rather curious about."  
  
The knowing grin he received in response told Mark that Cheryl was hardly fooled by his changing of the subject. "You do remember what the captain said, don't you?"  
  
"Yes I do," Mark agreed readily. "I just thought I could maybe just hand off what I've found. Perhaps to aid in your investigation." He offered his best hopeful look.  
  
Cheryl laughed as she pulled her car to a stop behind Mark's sedan. "Tell you what, I'll need to come and get a statement from Steve tomorrow. Why don't we talk then?"  
  
"All right." Mark grinned, pleased with the suggestion. He climbed out of the vehicle and, leaned back down into the car. "Thanks again." He smiled, hoping to emphasize how much he truly appreciated her help then closed the door and headed for his vehicle.  
  
As he crossed in front of Cheryl's car, moving toward his driver's side door, he spotted Kevin Masterson, again watching from his driveway. This time there was another man standing alongside him whom Mark suspected was a neighbor. Unable to resist the urge that overcame him, Mark waved and pointed toward the Michaels' beautifully manicured lawn.  
  
"It's environmentally safe!" he called across the street. "I checked. I think I might refer him to a few of my neighbors in Malibu!"  
  
Masterson reddened. Then murmuring something to the man at his side, turned on his heel and vanished into his home. The neighbor was left staring at Mark with his mouth open.  
  
Mark chuckled, climbed into his car and headed home. As he did so, he recalled the business card that the young man who had been working in the yard earlier had given him. Carefully maneuvering the card from his pocket as he drove, he took a look at the address. It wasn't precisely on his way home, but he had told Masterson that he would be contacting the man. Could he help it if questions about the Michaels' came up in the course of the conversation?  
  
~*~  
  
The view of the ocean through the French doors was making him sleepy. Or at least, that was his story as his lids drooped and a blissful lassitude spread throughout his body. He refused to acknowledge the fact that his system had been through two traumatic events within the span of 24 hours, or that the administration of painkillers and antibiotics might be contributing factors as well. The injury, he told himself, hadn't been all that bad, and there was absolutely no reason why he shouldn't be able to focus on the case file in his lap.  
  
Jesse had insisted on his remaining in the den where he could keep an eye on him, which had been just fine with Steve. He preferred to be in the thick of things, even though they hadn't been all that thick as Maeve and Jesse had gone out of their way to reduce the noise level.  
  
A creaking step on the wood flooring leading up from the kitchen brought him back from the brink. He opened his eyes fully and smiled hazily at Maeve as she came into the room bearing a tray. He noted distractedly that another of those red and blue balloon covered straws was sticking out of the drink.  
  
The smile faded, and he shot an 'I'll get you' look toward the kitchen where he was unsurprised to find Jesse leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a mischievous grin on his face. Jesse's grin became a full-fledged laugh as he returned back to the kitchen.  
  
He turned back to Maeve, realizing belatedly that she was looking for a place to settle the tray. The side table near the chair was full of the rest of the files that he'd gotten from Cheryl. "Oh, sorry. Here, let me put this away." He gathered the pages of the file, preparing to make them into a neat pile before returning them to the folder.  
  
Maeve's gasp brought his gaze to her, at which point he realized that she had gone pale as she stared aghast at the image at the top of the pile. He quickly shoved the papers into the folder; organizing would have to come later.  
  
"I'm sorry," he apologized for his thoughtlessness. It was often easy to forget that his usual array of friends saw things that the average citizen rarely saw, like police photos of the Jarvis murder which had been lying open on his lap. When he'd asked Cheryl for that stack of cases for which they had no leads, he hadn't known of his father's plan to invite Maeve to stay with them. But that was no excuse. He should have known better, especially since Maeve had already been through so much in the past couple of days.  
  
"No, wait." Maeve set the tray on a nearby chair and reached for the folder. "Can I see that again?"  
  
"I don't think that's such a good idea." He placed the file on the stack that sat on the table at his side. "I shouldn't have just had it open like that."  
  
"No," Maeve shook her head. "You don't understand. I know that man! He can't be dead! His name is Samuel Jarvis. I just saw him a week ago."  
  
Steve looked at her in shock as the implications of that statement sifted through his mind. He retrieved the file from the stack and double-checked the man's first name. Not that he'd thought he was wrong, but he wanted to be absolutely certain. He imagined that women might have described Samuel Jarvis as tall, dark and handsome in life. If his own relationship was anything to judge by, the other man would be just Maeve's type.  
  
Closing the folder, he looked up at her. "How did you know him?"  
  
Maeve looked uncomfortably toward Jesse, who had come back into the den at hearing her news, and then down at her hands.  
  
Steve shot Jesse a look, silently asking if he would grant them a little privacy. Jesse's nodded response as he headed out toward the deck answered his question.  
  
While he waited for her to begin speaking, he shoved away the other thoughts that floated through his mind such as his only having been one of a crowd to her. It had been nearly a month since they had dated, and then it had only been a couple of instances. It shouldn't bother him any longer.  
  
Maeve ran a hand along her forehead, obviously attempting to adjust to her own shock of discovering that yet another man in her life was dead. "I'm not sure where to start."  
  
"The beginning is usually the best place. How did you meet?"  
  
"Okay. Well, I met him, surprisingly enough, that day at the restaurant. Right after you left the table, he came over. He said that he hadn't heard exactly what we'd said, but he was sure that he had the jist of it when you walked out."  
  
Steve remembered the occasion vividly. It was the day that he'd confronted her about her marital status. "So you dated him?"  
  
Maeve nodded. "Yes."  
  
"In your relationship, did you ever learn of any reason why someone might want to kill him?"  
  
She shook her head. "How did he die?"  
  
"He was shot on the front step of his condo four days ago. One of his neighbors found the body." He observed her as she took in that bit of information, then continued his questioning. "How well did you know him?"  
  
A frown settled between her brows, and Steve wondered what it was that she didn't want to tell him. "I didn't really know him all that well," she said, finally.  
  
Steve bit back an unprofessional comment that came to mind, and forced himself to refocus. This was a case just like any other. Besides, who was he to talk? Exactly how well had he known her before leaping into a relationship.  
  
"When was the last time you saw him, exactly?" he asked, taking note of every nuance of expression that crossed her face.  
  
Her discomfort level grew. "Last weekend. We'd gone out for dinner and dancing."  
  
"And you haven't spoken to him since?" Steve pressed. He felt his frustration level rising. She was definitely hiding something from him.  
  
"Steve, I didn't kill Sam, okay? You've got to believe that."  
  
"I'm not saying that I think you're guilty. But you've got to tell me everything."  
  
"All right. I broke it off with Sam that night. He turned out not to be the type of man that I thought he was."  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"He wanted more from me than I could give him. I tried to break it off and he became violently angry."  
  
Steve's jaw tightened. "He hit you?"  
  
"He knocked me down," Maeve clarified. "I wasn't hurt, but it did scare me. I got out of there, and went home. He called me the next day, and I told him that if he didn't leave me alone I was going to have to call the police. I haven't seen or heard from him since then. That was last Saturday morning."  
  
"Where were you Tuesday night at approximately 8 p.m.?"  
  
"Tuesday? I was . . . . I was in Santa Barbara at a home expo. I got back pretty late, maybe around ten that night. My friend Carla was with me. I dropped her off at home."  
  
"What's Carla's last name?"  
  
"Rivers. This sounds like you're questioning me as a suspect."  
  
Steve paused in his noting of the woman's name in the file. "Just questioning. Did anyone else know about your altercation with Jarvis?"  
  
"I didn't do this, Steve."  
  
Steve ignored the comment and repeated, "Did anyone else know about your altercation with Jarvis?"  
  
"Just Adam and my girlfriend Carla." Frustration grew in her voice.  
  
"You and Carla talked a lot? You shared things with her?"  
  
Maeve nodded. "Everything." She stared back at him, frustration changing to anger. "I'd sit in a favorite blue chair in my bedroom and we'd just chat like school girls. All the intimate details. Every encounter, every guy. We especially talked a lot about you."  
  
Steve looked away then, unable to miss her meaning. "Look," he raised his hands in surrender. "I shouldn't be doing this. Um, I'm going to turn this back over to Detective Banks. She'll be by in the morning, she'll want to talk to you."  
  
"Fine. So you're done with me?" She stood.  
  
Steve blew out a breath, feeling his own irritation growing. "When people die, there are going to be questions. I suggest you get used to it."  
  
She looked as if she might say something. Then shaking her head, she turned and left the room.  
  
Steve watched her leave, a whole new set of worries settling in his heart. Could it be a coincidence that two of the men in Maeve's life had died within a week of each other? If Jarvis was a dirt bag, he'd probably had opportunity to offend someone else who had decided to end his miserable existence. But Steve didn't believe in coincidences, especially where murder investigations were involved.  
  
He groaned and leaned his head against the back of the chair. Where were all the nice, normal, *available* women who weren't psychos or killers and why were they avoiding him like the plague? 


	10. Part Ten

Part 10: Coincidentally Speaking  
  
Mark whistled as he walked toward the storefront of Findley Lawn Services. The glass-fronted office was stylishly designed and located in one of the newer industrial office complexes. Not exactly the kind of place that he'd expected to find a struggling business. Obviously things were going well for Vincent Findley.  
  
He moved inside, equally impressed with the internal décor. The small reception area near the front was empty of people, but there was a bell on the counter to the left of the door. Mark tapped it lightly, and took the opportunity to look the room over.  
  
The waiting room chairs looked very comfortable. It seemed only right that he test them out. He settled into the enveloping cushions and sighed with contentment. Just then a voice interrupted him.  
  
"Doctor Sloan, right?"  
  
Mark hopped up quickly from the chair, attempting to cover his embarrassment with a good-natured grin. "Andy. It's good to see you again." He returned a greeting to the young man who had been working on the Michaels' yard earlier that day.  
  
"Likewise," Andy chuckled. "I was really worried there for a while when that cop took you away in cuffs."  
  
"Oh that." Mark waved the incident away. "Just a little misunderstanding."  
  
Andy looked dubious, but was interrupted from responding by the appearance of another man from the back of the building.  
  
"I thought you were locking up," he said pointedly to the young man, before turning toward Mark. "I'm afraid we're closing, sir."  
  
"I promise not to take up much of your time," Mark assured him as Andy hurried off to make closing preparations. "I'm actually looking for Mr. Vincent Findley."  
  
The balding, medium height man looked back at him. "That's me."  
  
"Oh, good." Mark smiled at him, only slightly put off when the man simply stared back, unresponsive. He continued, "You have lovely offices. And a great location."  
  
Findley glanced at his watch suggestively. "Thank you, I had a good agent."  
  
"No kidding, boss!" Andy, upon reentering the reception area, jumped enthusiastically into the conversation. "Would you believe this place used to be based out of the back of a comic book store? Findley here used to . . . ." He trailed off mid-sentence at Findley's silencing glare, before adding a sheepish, "Sorry, boss."  
  
Mark offered the younger man a reassuring smile, before returning his attention to Findley. "I actually ran into Andy today at the Michaels' place. I was really impressed with his and your work. I have a beach house out in Malibu, I thought I would look into your services."  
  
Findley's brow rose with interest. "What exactly would you like to have done, Mr. . . . uh?" He no longer appeared as if he was ready to bolt out of the door.  
  
"Sloan. Mark Sloan." Mark filled in the blank, before attempting to answer the question. "And, actually, I'm not sure. At home there are lots of plants and shrubs, and . . . well, sand of course. What would you suggest?"  
  
Findley seemed to think seriously about it for a few moments. "It would probably be best if I did an appraisal for you. Would you like to make an appointment for that?"  
  
"Why, yes, I would," Mark agreed.  
  
"The earliest I have is Monday, about eleven o'clock? Two days from today?"  
  
"That'll be fine." Mark waited patiently while the appointment was entered into the computer system, stating his address and phone number at the appropriate time.  
  
"Thank you very much," Mark smiled at the other man, taking the packet of information that was handed to him. "I think you've done a wonderful job with the Michaels' property. Did you know them well?"  
  
"Actually --" Andy, having apparently noticed that his employer was more relaxed, approached and opened his mouth to answer.  
  
"Andy, I think we're all done here." Findley said, smiling toward the young man. "Thanks for your help today. I can see Mr. Sloan out."  
  
"That's Dr. Sloan," Andy spoke up, then looked toward Mark with a wink, and the thumbs up sign. Having picked up something off of one of the tables, he handed it to him. "The interior decorator's card. In case you're interested." He lowered his voice and added, "Don't forget what we talked about."  
  
"Right, I won't." Mark, struggled to hide his grin as he slipped the card into his pocket.  
  
Findley moved toward the opposite corner of the room after Andy left. Mark had no choice but to follow and repeat his question. "As I was saying, had you known the Michaels long?"  
  
"No. Maybe a year." Findley smiled toward him as he went about punching something into the alarm keypad. A beep sounded, then the man turned and herded Mark toward the door.  
  
"It's just terrible what happened to Mr. Michaels. Did you hear that there was trouble there lately Especially with the neighbor across the street?"  
  
Findley locked the door then shrugged noncommittally. "I'm just the gardener." He turned and headed toward a truck parked in one of the spots in front of the building. "Discretion is part of the service, Dr. Sloan. Have a good evening."  
  
"Yeah. Okay. I need to be getting home since it's . . . ." Mark found himself talking to the other man's tail lights. "By the way, you might want to give Andy a raise." He winced.  
  
~*~  
  
The sun was settling over the horizon when Jesse made his way over the sands from the beach. Someone had removed the crime scene tape during the day, and things were looking back to normal with the exception of the splotches of blood on Steve's patio. The reminder was a little unsettling. Maybe he could have it cleaned up so Mark wouldn't have to be concerned with it.  
  
Making a mental note to do just that, he started up the steps that led to the deck on Mark's section of the house. He hoped that his walk had been long enough for Steve and Maeve to discuss whatever they'd needed to talk about.  
  
The image that greeted him through the glass doors was of Steve, eyes closed, his head leaning back against the recliner. Judging from the frown lines on his face, he wasn't sleeping. Jesse watched as he suddenly opened them, and clumsily attempted to get up from the chair. He opened the door and rushed inside.  
  
"Whoa. You need something? I'm at your service. Take advantage of this opportunity while you have it." He smiled, hoping that the touch of humor would spark an answering smile from his friend.  
  
Steve didn't smile back, he sighed instead. "I just need the telephone, Jess. I'm perfectly capable of getting it." His voice was a half growl. A very strong indication, in Jesse's opinion, that the conversation with Maeve had not gone well.  
  
"I know you can. But humor me." He picked up the extension in the kitchen and brought it out to him. On the return trip to the kitchen, he carried the tray that had been abandoned on one of the chairs. It was obvious that Steve had no intention of drinking that juice that he'd prepared for him.  
  
Keeping a careful ear cocked in Steve's direction, he checked on the start he'd made on dinner. The salad would be chilled nicely. Though somehow he doubted that he'd get the looked for argument from his friend about spinach greens.  
  
Steve was calling Cheryl, he made out that portion of the conversation easily enough. Apparently he wanted her to question a woman by the name of Carla Rivers who had some familiarity with the dead guy, Samuel Jarvis. Steve said something after that, but his voice dropped to a lower volume and Jesse was having a hard time making out the words.  
  
He moved from the sink to one of the drawers in the center island, nearer the den. There was nothing that he needed to check into there, but Steve didn't know that. He was just trying to look out for his friend, find out what was going on. He glanced up, startled, when Steve spoke a little above normal tone, "Looking for a user's manual?"  
  
Jesse focused on what was actually in the drawer and flushed when he noticed the paper manuals that had come with the kitchen appliances. He grinned sheepishly. "Oh. Wrong drawer."  
  
"Umm hmmm." Steve shot him a disbelieving look. But it was also tinged with affection.  
  
Jesse couldn't resist the chance to press his advantage. With a broadening grin, he started up the steps into the den and settled into the chair that Maeve had recently vacated. "I take it things didn't go so well?" he asked sympathetically.  
  
"That would be an understatement," Steve admitted. "I don't know how I could have been so --" He was cut off by the ringing of the phone, still in his lap. He picked it up and answered.  
  
"Oh, hi, Amanda." He smiled in Jesse's direction as he identified the caller. His smile dropped away slightly. "That's too bad. Uh, yeah, he's right beside me." He chuckled slightly. "Okay. Right, I'll tell him."  
  
Jesse waited expectantly while Steve hung up the phone. He'd obviously been a part of their conversation. "What did she say?" he wanted to know.  
  
Steve smiled. "Just that she has an emergency autopsy to do and that she won't be able to make it for dinner."  
  
Jesse's face fell. "That's not all she said."  
  
"Really? It isn't?" Steve feigned confusion, but a half smile was still visible.  
  
"No, it wasn't," Jesse replied. "There was something else. I could tell. You guys were laughing about something."  
  
"Jesse. Amanda is my friend. We laugh about lots of things. Now, I'd really like to get some rest." He closed his eyes, but the smile remained on his face. He cocked one eye open and looked at him. "I thought you were supposed to be serving me. Shouldn't you be starting dinner about now? I'm starved."  
  
Jesse grumbled good-naturedly and headed back toward the kitchen. Obviously Steve was just yanking his chain. Amanda's message must have been for Mark. But, he couldn't complain that Steve was smiling. That was a good thing. Smiling to himself, he hoped that this time there would be no crisis that would prevent anyone from actually eating the meal that was prepared for the evening.  
  
~*~  
  
Mark balanced a tray in one hand and knocked on the door to the guest room. Maeve hadn't come out for dinner, complaining of a headache and lack of hunger. Steve had filled him in about what had taken place in his absence. Though he didn't doubt the headache and lack of hunger, he was sure that there was probably a heavy dose of shame and embarrassment involved as well. Maybe even some anger.  
  
She opened the door and looked between him and the tray. "I'm really not hungry, Mark." She turned and headed back inside the room, leaving the door open. Mark followed.  
  
"You should try to eat something anyway," he insisted. "It's just a bit of salad and some chicken. Jesse is very good at salads." He held the tray where she could see that he'd carefully decorated the tray with a small spray of flowers. "This one is especially delicious."  
  
He could see her weakening a little. "Why don't you have a seat right there?" He gestured her to a cushioned chair by the window. With a motion of his hands, he folded down the wooden legs beneath it and settled the tray across her lap. As he stood he handed her a napkin wrapped set of silverware.  
  
"Wow. You've done this before." Maeve smiled at him, a bit of humor returning for a moment. She sighed a little as she started in on the salad.  
  
"I've had occasion to do this from time to time," he admitted, a small smile lighting his features. He liked cooking and preparing meals for Steve, but the only time he could get away with bringing it to him on a tray was when he was ill or recovering.  
  
"This is really good," she admitted.  
  
"I'll let Jesse know. He'll glow with pleasure." He chuckled as she laughed in return. He watched for several moments as she continued to eat, then said, "Steve told me about what happened."  
  
Maeve stopped chewing, appearing to immediately lose her appetite. "Gave you the blow by blow, did he?" She shot a suspicious look in his direction, but Mark smiled beneficently back at her.  
  
"Steve's my son; I worry about him. But I really don't get involved in his personal life." He continued to smile, pleased when she relaxed and started eating again. He continued, "And I wouldn't think of judging you."  
  
Maeve glanced at him. "You're probably the only one."  
  
"Despite his personal feelings, Steve is a good man and a good police officer. He is only looking for the truth."  
  
She put down her fork. "You're probably right. I guess I may have overreacted a little when he kept asking all those questions. But that's his job, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes, it is," Mark agreed.  
  
"Well, that probably makes it a little complicated for him having me here. My father will be in tomorrow. I could go to a hotel for the night."  
  
"No," Mark shook his head. "That isn't necessary at all. And Steve wouldn't have it either. Besides, he's already sleeping. Between the meds Jesse is giving him and the recovery process, he won't even know his own name till morning."  
  
"I'm so sorry. I feel like everything that has happened is my fault. Even Adam. If I had been home, maybe he would still be alive."  
  
"Why would you say that?" Mark asked, sympathetically.  
  
"Because he wasn't even supposed to be there. He was supposed to be at work."  
  
"What about the woman who was with him?" Mark asked the sensitive question. "Was she supposed to be there?"  
  
"No," Maeve shook her head. "They were supposed to leave his office and drive up to Palmdale. I guess he must have forgotten something at home."  
  
A startling thought occurred to Mark. "Was anyone supposed to be at your house that morning?"  
  
"No. . . ." Maeve started to answer, then trailed off. "Yes." A worried frowned settled over her face. "Jeff Johansen -- an electrician -- was supposed to be there that morning to complete repairs to our intercom. But he called me Thursday evening and told me that he couldn't get the part for another week. I ran into him later at a club."  
  
"Who else knew he wasn't going to be there that morning? Did your husband know?"  
  
Maeve shook her head. "No. Just Carla. She was at the club, too. You don't think someone wanted to kill Jeff do you? That Adam's death was a mistake?" 


	11. Part Eleven

Part 11: Building A Case  
  
Steve opened his eyes. Though he knew, if only by the pattern of the ceiling, that he was home in his own bed, he felt out of time. It was as if he'd woken up in the middle of the action, but then when he lifted his lids, all was still.  
  
His brain had that groggy, hung-over feeling that followed being dosed with strong medication. It was several moments before he pulled himself together enough to do more than blink at the aforementioned familiar expanse of off- white overhead.  
  
The physical stuff came first. Of course, he was lying on his back, an impressive array of pillows behind him to ensure that his upper body remained somewhat elevated. The bed covers had long since worked their way down to about waist level. But even without that indicator, he knew he was wearing a nightshirt, or a pajama top of some kind - he vaguely remembered his father insisting upon it. His arms lay heavily at his sides, unwilling to do more than lay spread against the bedding.  
  
Other things followed more sluggishly. Vague memories from the night. Snatches of disturbing dreams, thoughts of encroaching darkness, of being haunted by a shadowy figure. He released a careful sigh as he blinked, and noted the dimness brought on by the tightly drawn curtains. These days everything was a shadowy figure. He was hard pressed to think of something that wasn't looming over him. Like finding out the truth about who had killed Adam Michaels and his assistant. Maybe in between trying to keep up with his father who he was sure was investigating on the side, he could figure why someone had shot at him and Maeve. Certainly there would be time to deal with the situation with Fred Mancini, one time friend. After what had happened the day before, they definitely had to talk. And not just because of Stella. The deaths of two little girls also colored his relationship with the other detective, weighing heavily on his conscience.  
  
A loud murmur of voices from upstairs interrupted his internal ruminations, before quickly dying down again, as if being stifled. He realized that was what must have awakened him in the first place. The voices were too muffled for him to properly identify them, but he couldn't imagine that his dad would be making that kind of noise while he knew that he was sleeping.  
  
He turned his head to the side to look at the clock. A jolt of surprise hit him. It was approaching eleven A.M. That couldn't be right. Rolling to his side with the intention of reaching for his watch, he was reminded, in vivid Technicolor, that sharp, rapid motions were still a bad idea.  
  
Cursing himself furiously when he could breathe again, he moved with much more caution and managed to slowly maneuver himself into a sitting position. The watch confirmed the message that he had received from the clock. He had overslept by several hours.  
  
Meaning to find out at least what the noise was about, he eased himself stiffly into a standing position, and slipped his robe on over the pajamas. There were some slippers around somewhere, too. Thankfully, able to work them out from underneath the bed with his toes, he slipped his feet into them and after running a hand over his face, made his way toward the stairs.  
  
As he reached the bottom of the steps, he heard the front door close much more firmly than his dad would have done, then the sound of low voices. One of them was definitely his father's. He reached the middle landing and headed up the remaining steps that lead to the upper section of the house. The voices stopped, and Mark and Cheryl appeared at the top of the flight.  
  
"Steve . . . !" Mark looked as if he was ready to come down and help him the rest of the way up.  
  
Steve waylaid him with a look. He didn't need the help. "Morning, Dad. Cheryl. Did I miss something?" If what he read in their body language was any indicator, something had definitely just happened.  
  
"Maeve just left," Mark told him. "I tried to --"  
  
Steve came to a stop mid-step. "What? Already?" He looked toward Cheryl. "What about protective custody? We were definitely shot at the other day."  
  
--  
  
Cheryl looked back at her partner as he continued stiffly up the few remaining steps. A blue robe was cinched loosely about his waist, his hair was all mussed, falling forward, and he looked as if a couple more hours of sleep would do him good. Though she had things she needed to talk to him about, her initial inclination was to tell him that she would come back later. But she had worked with him long enough to know that would never fly.  
  
"We weren't left with a lot of choices, Steve," Mark said, attempting to finish his previous explanation while steering his son toward the den.  
  
Cheryl followed, filling in. "I was talking to her when her father showed up, lawyer in tow. He suggested arresting her, or letting her be on her way."  
  
"There's a killer on the loose. Doesn't he realize that?" Steve sighed in frustration.  
  
"I've a feeling that he has plans of his own for keeping his daughter hidden away for the time being," Mark put in. "He was a very determined man."  
  
Cheryl added, "I agree. And he did manage to show up with one of the best defense attorneys in LA on a Sunday morning. The man has definitely been planning. I think she'll be okay."  
  
Steve made a face, acknowledging his reluctant agreement as he settled carefully into a leather recliner. "Were you at least able to finish questioning her?" he wanted to know.  
  
"Why don't I get us something to drink?" Mark said, unobtrusively ducking out of the room toward the kitchen.  
  
Cheryl watched him go before turning back to Steve. She reflected on the conversation that she'd had with the woman before carefully wording her response. "I think I got enough," she said. She hoped that he got the message that she now understood all of the nuances of the case.  
  
Steve looked distinctly uncomfortable, not meeting her eyes. "She told you everything?" At her murmured 'yes', he looked up tentatively. "Well, at least she was cooperating that far."  
  
"Yes, she was," she offered a wry grin. "And speaking of cooperation, what did you say to Fred?" Her grin changed to a chuckle. The question had been designed to release some of his tension and discomfort. Instead he seemed even more pensive.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Cheryl frowned in confusion, wondering if there was something that she had completely missed. She remembered how the two men had been found outside the precinct the day before, but Fred had been so different when she'd seen him just before coming out to the beach house.  
  
"He brought me his notes," she told him. "All cleaned up and in order. He asked how you were doing."  
  
Steve's brows rose slightly, but Cheryl could tell that he was trying to hide his surprise. "I'm fine," he said. "You can tell him that if you see him before I do."  
  
"He's taking some time off. The captain divided out his cases this morning."  
  
"Oh." Steve was silent for a beat. "Did you find anything interesting in his notes?"  
  
"Well, he was waiting on follow ups on a few things to do with the Michaels' finances. But there was one thing that was a little odd. The place where Kevin Masterson, the across the street neighbor, said he was during the murders burned Friday night."  
  
"Really?" Mark reappeared with a tray and three mugs. He handed them around and settled into a chair. "Any idea of the cause?"  
  
Cheryl shook her head. "The preliminary findings are inconclusive."  
  
Mark seemed to muse that point for several moments. "Were you able to find out anything about Jeff Johansen, the electrician?"  
  
Steve turned sharply in his direction. "What electrician?"  
  
"Oh, sorry, Steve," Mark apologized with one of his trademark grins. "Last night I spoke with Maeve, and she mentioned that Adam Michaels and Tessa Cohen weren't even supposed to be at the house that morning. They were supposed to be on their way to a convention up in Palmdale.  
  
"Remember the post-it note I told you I saw on the refrigerator? Well, it turns out Jeff Johansen was the repairman in question. Their intercom was broken, it seems. But he was planning to bring back a part on Friday to complete the work. He called Maeve on Thursday night, and told her that he couldn't find the part. But she ran into him later that night at a club."  
  
Cheryl watched as the implications occurred to Steve, and he asked the same ones that she had. "Who knew that this electrician wasn't going to be there?"  
  
"Just her friend Carla, and the electrician himself, of course," Mark replied.  
  
"Carla Rivers," Steve repeated the name. "Her name has come up again. Were you able to talk to her, Cheryl?"  
  
Cheryl was distracted by Mark's sudden frown, but answered Steve's question. "Uh, yes, for a few minutes last night. She was able to confirm Maeve's alibi for the time of Jarvis' death." She continued speaking as Mark excused himself and vanished off into another part of the house. "I tried the electrician's number, but didn't get an answer. I'll try to get by his place this evening." She shot Steve a confused look at his father's behavior.  
  
Steve merely shrugged. "He'll tell us when he's ready," he said, resignedly. Then, "Why don't you take Sternen with you when you go to see this Johansen guy? I'd go with you myself, but that might require knocking my father over the head."  
  
Cheryl smiled at his obvious concern. "I'll be careful," she told him, not committing either way on who would be accompanying her. "I've asked Ballistics to put a rush on the bullets that were taken from Adam Michaels and Tessa Cohen, but you know how backed up they are on weekends."  
  
Steve looked out the window. "What about the one from the beach?"  
  
"CSU wasn't able to find it. They followed its trajectory, even found where they think it hit the sand, but it's gone, Steve. Probably washed out into the ocean. But on the bright side, they were very thorough otherwise. They hit the jackpot with your fence. Do you have parties back there or something? CSU pulled more than three dozen sets of prints."  
  
Something flickered across Steve's face at the mention of fingerprints. "Could you get them to put a rush on the north corner?"  
  
"Sure." Cheryl frowned. "Why?"  
  
Steve shook his head. "It's probably nothing," he said dismissively.  
  
Cheryl tilted her head slightly. There was something that Steve wasn't telling her. Mark's abrupt entrance halted any additional questions she might have formulated.  
  
"I knew that name was familiar!" Mark exclaimed. He entered the room with a white envelope and something that looked suspiciously like a business card in hand. He pointed out the name embossed across the face of the card beneath the business logo of River's End design firm. "She's an interior designer. Carla F. Rivers. Does great work, by the way."  
  
Cheryl looked at him in askance. She wasn't sure she understood what that had to do with anything.  
  
"It's an odd coincidence, don't you think?" Mark looked between the two of them.  
  
"What are you getting at, Dad?" Steve spoke up. Apparently he was just as confused as Cheryl was.  
  
"She did the offices of Findley's Lawn Service. The same firm that did the Michaels' yard, the same one that the neighbor across the street, Kevin Masterson, hates. There's a connection there."  
  
Something clicked in Cheryl's mind and she pulled out her notebook and flipped through it. "Well, Carla's middle name is Findley, so maybe she and the guy who owns the lawn service are related. Since Carla Rivers and Maeve Michaels seem to be close friends, it would stand to reason that they would have friends in common."  
  
"Yeah, maybe," Mark murmured as he settled thoughtfully back into his chair. Cheryl's phone rang at that point, so she withdrew from the conversation.  
  
Mark turned back to Steve. "This Jarvis thing bothers me," he said. There was a pensive look about him that Steve was well familiar with. It meant that Mark had stumbled across something and he was mentally trying to piece it in with the facts that he already had.  
  
"Why does it bother you?" Steve asked. Though he couldn't always follow his father's logic, he'd learned from experience that his insights were most often valid. Talking them out tended to help the both of them.  
  
"Well, for one thing, he was killed on Tuesday night, right?"  
  
"Right," Steve agreed. "Shot at about 8 p.m."  
  
"He'd been abusive toward Maeve. A possible motive could be that he'd been abusive to someone else, and they were out for a little revenge. But then, on Friday, Adam Michaels and Tessa Cohen are killed. But now we learn that they weren't supposed to have been where they were at the time. I can't help but think that the murders are connected, but there is a big piece missing. Can I see that file again?"  
  
Steve frowned as he handed over the folder that was still on the table beside the chair. "Yeah, there is definitely something wrong with the picture. And I wonder if Maeve and her friend the electrician weren't supposed to be there together, instead."  
  
"Mmmm." Mark considered that bit of information as he began to flip through the photographs. "You think she was dating him, too?"  
  
Steve shrugged. "Why not? She was dating everyone else."  
  
"Change of plan," Cheryl spoke as she clicked off her cellular. "Just got the ballistics report on Sam Jarvis. It's confirmed. The same type of gun was used to kill him as was used during the Michaels and Cohen murders. A .30 caliber that matches to a Winchester Sharpshooter rifle. Ballistics says that it's a custom weapon."  
  
"Using a custom rifle is pretty stupid unless you want to be found," Steve said. "But we sort of figured that there would be a match on the bullets."  
  
"Yes, but we didn't figure that Sam Jarvis is a divorce attorney, or that the phone number for Adam Michaels' private line would be found in his effects."  
  
"You're kidding." Steve didn't like the way this new twist was making things appear. He might not like the way she lived her life, but he couldn't believe that Maeve would have killed her husband. "Maybe Jarvis didn't like the fact that she broke it off with him, so he wanted to taunt the husband a little."  
  
"Maybe," Cheryl agreed. "But did you know that Adam Michaels came into a very lucrative inheritance on his thirty-fifth birthday?"  
  
"How lucrative?" Mark asked.  
  
"Four million dollars worth," Cheryl informed him.  
  
Mark whistled.  
  
Steve felt a sinking sensation. "When did he turn thirty-five?"  
  
"Two weeks ago, Friday. Guess who inherits, now. And guess who have hand guns registered in their names?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Both Maeve and Carla. They registered on the same day. I think it's time I go have another talk with Ms. Rivers. I think I'll swing by the Fairfield Apartments to see if I can reach our electrician friend. I've a feeling we're going to need to hear from him to confirm or deny their alibi during the time of the murder." 


	12. Part Twelve

** denote italics  
  
Part 12: Complexities  
  
It was mid-morning, and a cool breeze was blowing up from the ocean. Most of his neighbors hadn't too long gotten up and out to begin the commute into the city. Mark, having a day off where he was actually staying home was seated on the deck, sipping at a cup of rapidly cooling coffee. He held the folder from the Jarvis murder before him, going through it yet again.  
  
The picture showed the lawyer sprawled on the sidewalk leading up to his Condo, a pool of blood beneath him. There were dark, almost greenish splotches of something else beside the blood, but he couldn't make out what it was, even with his magnifying glass. He sighed and laid the picture aside. Perhaps he'd have a better idea later in the day.  
  
But more than the splotches were bothering him. The way that things had turned out on the whole didn't quite sit right in his mind. He wasn't sure if it was something in the file, or just a niggling thought that had yet to find a place in the jigsaw puzzle the case had become. Focusing in the distance, he went over the events that had taken place the day before. . . .  
  
**Steve had become very moody and out of sorts after Cheryl had left in search of Carla Rivers. Mark knew that he was troubled by the case on several levels. But Steve was resilient and usually bounced back from emotional disappointments with the women he dated. And the situation with Maeve seemed to only deepen, calling first his judgment as a man into question, and now his judgment as a police officer. It would not sit well if he had been duped twice.  
  
"We're going to get to the bottom of this, Steve," Mark told him, hoping to offer reassurance.  
  
Steve had simply looked at him and sighed, before mumbling something about getting dressed. He'd then headed off into his section of the house for the next hour. When he'd returned, he'd gone straight to the deck, sinking into one of the chairs and staring out over the ocean.  
  
Mark had approached and attempted to raise the issue several times, but Steve had politely shut him down. Finally Mark had settled for simply being there while they awaited word from Cheryl.  
  
About mid-afternoon Jesse had shown up, and Mark had left him on the deck with Steve, hoping that the friendship between the two of them would be able to lift him out of the funk he was in. And since Jesse always brought his hunger with him, Mark had just popped a lasagna in the oven for the three of them to enjoy later.  
  
The doorbell rang as he was headed out of the kitchen toward the deck carrying a tray laden with chips and drinks. He retraced his steps, leaving the tray on the counter as he headed for the front of house. He smiled when he saw Amanda on the other side of the glass.  
  
"Hi, Honey."  
  
"Hi, Mark." Amanda displayed several vividly colored pieces of paper. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for Steve, yesterday. The scene that I was called to was pretty rough. The body had been in an enclosed area for almost two days."  
  
Mark offered her a sympathetic look. He knew how bad some autopsies could be.  
  
"But enough about that," Amanda waved that conversation away. "I brought these for him."  
  
Mark admired the bold artwork, and gestured her on through the house while he made a quick pit stop in the kitchen for the refreshments and an additional glass. "Steve's out on the deck. You can give them to him." He secretly hoped that if Jesse hadn't somehow been able to raise Steve's spirits, that the drawings would.  
  
"Hi, Steve. I heard about what happened, but I couldn't get away. How are you feeling?" She rushed around the deck table and offered Steve a gentle hug.  
  
"I'm fine." Steve returned the hug with affection. "And I know you were tied up. It was no big deal, really."  
  
Amanda gave him a look out of the corner of her eye. "Umm Hmm. Well, anyway, I brought these." She extended the drawings toward him. "The boys made them for you. I would have brought them but I didn't know if you'd be up to short company just yet."  
  
Steve accepted the drawings with a laugh. "Well, Jess is here."  
  
"Hey, I resemble that remark!" Jesse put in.  
  
Amanda shot Jesse a look. "Don't you have a home?"  
  
"Well, yeah." Jesse's look was full of earnestness. "But I'm here in an official capacity."  
  
"Oh, really? Which one is that? Official eater of food?"  
  
"No. Checking on my patient."  
  
"I can vouch for that one," Steve spoke up. "He's been doing nothing but lecturing me and hassling me since he stepped out here."  
  
Mark chuckled at the banter that was going amongst the three. Perhaps they were just what Steve had needed.  
  
"That's our Jesse," Amanda said, softening her words with a smile. "So, how's the case going?" she asked, settling into one of the deck chairs.  
  
Mark saw the immediate return of some of Steve's glumness as he told them what they had learned about Adam Michaels' trust fund.  
  
Amanda was crestfallen. "Steve, I'm so sorry I dragged you into this. I should have just left well enough alone."  
  
"No, Amanda. Don't worry about it," Steve tried to reassure her. "At least Fred is off the case, now. Newman reassigned it to Cheryl."  
  
"Good." Amanda nodded emphatically. "Do you guys really think she did it?"  
  
"It doesn't look good," Mark put in. "But I'm also not sure that I buy the fact that she killed her husband because he was going to divorce her. And why kill the lawyer?"  
  
"So maybe what we need to do," Jesse spoke up, "Is to write down everyone's names, the motives they have and see what we come up with." Jesse's suggestion was spoken around a mouthful of pretzels.  
  
Steve looked less-than-enthusiastic, but grumbled an agreement. "It certainly can't hurt at this point."  
  
"Why don't you grab the paper and pen, Jess?" Mark said to the younger doctor, noting his eager grin in response to Steve's okay. "You know where everything is."  
  
"Sure thing." Jesse was up and out of his seat and headed back inside the house. Jesse returned quickly and flopped down in his seat, looking expectantly among the three of them. "Okay, who do we start with?"  
  
"Well, I've hardly been involved at all," Amanda said, "So I'll just listen along and see if anything pops up."  
  
"Okay. Why not start with the 'unknown' person?" Mark suggested. After Jesse had agreeably written it down, he continued. "The motive could have been anything, since it depends on the person. Revenge, greed. Who's to say that Adam Michaels wasn't dating someone who didn't want to let him go?"  
  
"Kinda like a fatal attraction?" Jesse piped up.  
  
"Means and opportunity don't matter since we don't know who this person is," Steve joined in.  
  
"How about Kevin Masterson, the neighbor?" Amanda piped up, seeming happy to contribute something. "He was certainly strange enough."  
  
"And there is the lawn contract. Although it isn't nearly as lucrative as a 4 million dollar trust fund. But there is the revenge factor. He really hated the Michaels'."  
  
"What about means and opportunity?" Jesse asked.  
  
Mark shrugged. "Well, no one has been able to verify his alibi since the owner of Free & Clear has been out of reach since the fire."  
  
"Which sounds more than a little convenient," Steve put in.  
  
"Yes it does," Mark agreed. "Too convenient. And we still have no reason for him to kill Sam Jarvis."  
  
"Well, he is a divorce lawyer," Steve said. "Maybe there used to be a Mrs. Kevin Masterson."  
  
"Good point," Mark said. "And Masterson is definitely one to hold a grudge."  
  
Jesse wrote something on the paper. "Okay, who's next?"  
  
"How about Maeve?" Steve asked.  
  
"All right," Jesse said, shooting him a look from the corner of his eye. "I guess 4 million is a lot of reasons for murder."  
  
"Yeah, it is. As far as means goes, she's a registered gun owner, so it's possible that she knows how to shoot. I'll have to check into that. She could even have gotten her friend Carla to shoot at us on the beach to throw suspicion off of her."  
  
"That's some friend," Jesse commented.  
  
"Maybe people who commit murder together are close that way," Steve replied dryly.  
  
"What about opportunity?" Mark asked.  
  
"Where was she the night before?" Steve said. "We only have Carla's word that they were together. Until Cheryl talks to the electrician, there is no evidence that she wasn't someplace staking out the house, waiting for her husband to get home so that she could knock him off."  
  
Mark didn't argue with him, deciding that it was best to move on to the next suspect. "How about the electrician himself? We don't know where he fits into any of this. He could very likely have a motive that we're not aware of."  
  
"Okay." Jesse agreed, then went to write the name down and paused. "What's his name, again?"  
  
Steve answered for him. "Jeff Johansen. Cheryl's been trying to reach him. Maybe he's left town."  
  
"You," Jesse pointed at him, "have a very suspicious mind."  
  
"I'm a cop. So sue me."  
  
Amanda coughed at that point, nearly choking on her drink. "Who did you say the electrician was?"  
  
Steve looked at her strangely. "Jeff Johansen. He was the one who was supposed to be at the Michaels house that morning instead of Adam and his assistant."  
  
"Oh my God. I know why Cheryl can't find him."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because he's dead. His car was found down an embankment yesterday off Fairfield. But it wasn't the car accident that killed him. Someone shot him first."  
  
Surprise reigned for several moments, and then Steve pushed himself slowly up from the chair and headed inside. "I'll let Cheryl know."  
  
Mark turned back to Amanda. "Do you know the time of death?"  
  
Amanda shook her head, trying to come to terms with the changes in the case. "I'd have to say sometime very early Friday morning. Between 2 and 3 a.m. He was definitely dead before Adam Michaels."  
  
"Well, if nothing else, we've just proved two things."  
  
"What things are they?" Steve asked, reappearing at the door.  
  
"The murder of Adam Michaels was no mistake, and the electrician didn't do it."  
  
"We also have one other thing to add to that list," Steve said. "One Winchester Sharpshooter rifle, registered to one Kevin Masterson. Our friendly neighborhood video taper."  
  
"Cheryl is on the way to see him, now."**  
  
Mark came back to the present at a sound behind him. He looked up to see Steve moving through the doors, carrying a cup of coffee of his own.  
  
"Morning, Dad." Steve smiled as he settled gingerly into one of the deck chairs. He was obviously still tender, but Mark was pleased to note that he appeared to be much better than he had the day before. He figured that might have had something to do with someone besides Maeve looking guilty.  
  
"Good morning," Mark returned his greeting with a smile. "How'd you sleep?"  
  
"Like a baby," Steve replied, picking up the white envelope that lay beneath the Jarvis folder. He pulled out a couple pages and did a quick glance over them before shoving them back in.  
  
"I'm glad to hear it." Mark chuckled. "Rest is the best thing for you to help your body heal. Although I can't say that coffee is on my recommended list for you today, but I'll let it slide."  
  
"Thank you so much," Steve's reply was tinged with affectionate humor. He gestured toward the pages that he had taken from the folder. "You don't think Masterson did it, do you?"  
  
"Pretty obvious, huh?" Mark looked sheepish. "What gave me away?"  
  
"The other look," Steve replied.  
  
"What other look?" Mark demanded with a laugh.  
  
"Not the one that you get when you've figured everything all out, but the other one. The look that you get when there's a seed of an idea in the back of your mind and you just can't get to it. We all know that when you do get to it, it's going to help get the case all wrapped up."  
  
"I don't know if I like that I'm so transparent."  
  
"You're not. Trust me. But a son can learn a few tricks now and then. It was written all over you when you were staring along the beach. If it's any consolation, I don't think Masterson did it, either. And I didn't even interview him. I think our killer is trying to set Masterson up. Maybe getting rid of two birds with one stone."  
  
"Who could Masterson have been a threat to?" Mark wondered aloud, glad to know that Steve was with him on this.  
  
"From what I keep hearing about the man, he's more of an irritant than anything else. It would have to be someone who could get into his home and get his rifle. Unless Cheryl managed to find it sometime before I got up."  
  
"No, she didn't." Mark looked at his watch. "But she did say that she'd be coming by this morning. Maeve's lawyer wanted to know if the police were finished with the house. I thought I'd go by for one last look. Maybe it'll spark something, help us to figure out what an electrician, a lawyer, a doctor and an assistant have in common aside from having been killed by the same type of gun."  
  
Steve grinned at him. "If you hadn't thrown the assistant in there, my theory might have worked."  
  
The doorbell sounded. "That'll be Cheryl," Mark replied, moving up from his seat. "What theory is that?" he asked over his shoulder as Steve stood and followed him inside.  
  
"That they're all men that Maeve has dated," Steve replied.  
  
Mark chuckled, and something distant clicked in his mind. But he didn't have time to focus on it as Cheryl was standing at the door waiting for him. She greeted them both, and they chatted for several minutes discussing the way Masterson had broken down and cried like a baby when he'd been questioned, that she had doubts about the man's guilt. "And not just because he cried," she added, when Steve teased her conclusion. "Call it intuition."  
  
"Intuition, huh? Would that be women's intuition?"  
  
Mark covered a smile, as he followed the conversation.  
  
"Yes, it would. He didn't strike me as the kind who would even touch a gun, much less by one."  
  
"So, what was he doing with a custom one, then?" Steve wanted to know.  
  
"Says his father bought it for him. Wanted him to be more like his brother, apparently. He actually shuddered while he was talking about it."  
  
"That sounds like him," Mark agreed. "And, Steve is pulling your leg. We don't believe Masterson did it, either. It's too pat. And there's no motive for the lawyer or the electrician."  
  
"So you believe it's a set up scenario?" Cheryl queried.  
  
"Yep," Steve agreed.  
  
"Anything from Carla Rivers?"  
  
"Nothing helpful," Cheryl replied. "She turned up another alibi who Sternen is checking out as we speak. She admitted that she and Maeve did a lot of business together, that they're great friends, what a wonderful person she is." Cheryl rolled her eyes a little. "You would think Maeve had given her a kidney or something. But it turns out that Maeve personally provided the seed money to help her get her decorating business off the ground, same with Findley, btw. She's a silent partner in both their companies. To hear Carla tell it, Maeve didn't need Adam's trust fund."  
  
"Unless she's either over extended herself, or is paying Carla," Mark murmured, stealing a quick glance in Steve's direction. He was happy to see the look that Steve shot his way, clearly exhibiting a silent *I'm fine, Dad, so quit worrying.*  
  
"Which doesn't change the fact that we're still at square one with too many suspects," Steve said, returning to the conversation.  
  
"Which is precisely why we're revisiting all of the scenes," Mark said, with a twinkle in his eye. "Maybe something will spark in the old gray matter."  
  
~*~  
  
Steve was stretched out on a lawn chair on the deck, dozing. Some sixth sense caused him to awaken. He immediately startled at the shadow that was looming over him. For several heart pounding moments it looked like a faceless blob against the sun. But then his vision cleared and he realized that it was just a man.  
  
"Who are you?" he asked, pushing himself up into a standing position. The man on his deck wasn't one that he recalled meeting. And he didn't particularly like that he'd managed to sneak up on him as he had. He was a cop, for Pete's sake.  
  
"Vincent Findley," the man told him, eyeing at him warily. "I'm here to do an estimate for Dr. Mark Sloan. For yard work."  
  
"Oh." Steve looked the man over. He wore a baseball cap that contained the name Findley Lawn Services. His t-shirt bore a faded superhero logo, but the khaki-colored pants matched the shirt that was slung around his waist. Steve could almost make out some sort of logo on the khaki shirt, but it was lost in the folds of the garment.  
  
"I hope you don't mind?" Findley said, following his look with an odd intensity. "It's a bit warm out today. Is Dr. Sloan here?"  
  
Steve shook his head. "No, I don't mind, and no he isn't." And his father hadn't told him about any lawn estimates. But knowing his dad, he wasn't surprised. Still there was something odd about this guy. He was about to ask to see some ID when Findley gestured toward the large white envelope on the table.  
  
"I gave him this when he made the appointment." He reached for the item that Steve had picked up earlier and flipped through its contents until he found a handwritten appointment slip. "Here's the confirmation."  
  
Steve looked hard at the man a moment longer. It was obvious his dad had made the appointment in person. "Okay, well. Let me know if you need anything."  
  
"No problem." Findley turned and headed back down the deck stairs.  
  
Steve watched him go with a slight frown. His own version of that niggling feeling was working overtime. But he couldn't put his finger on what was causing it. He only knew that it had something to do with Findley.  
  
Glancing down at the appointment slip, he noted the neat bold block lettering that had been used and wondered if Findley had written it. It was strangely reminiscent of the type of printing that was used in comic books. He'd never seen a person do that in real life. Shaking his head slightly, he grabbed up the rest of the items, including the Jarvis folder and headed back into the house. The feeling that he was missing something didn't abate as he got dressed for the day. 


	13. Part Thirteen

Part 13: Edge  
  
"We figure the shooter was somewhere in those hills," Cheryl said, pointing toward a slight rise, populated by trees and bushes. She then turned and pointed toward a section of upscale townhomes to their left. "It happened over here. Number 12111."  
  
Mark followed alongside her as they walked in that direction. "Looks like the scene has already been cleaned up," he said, disappointed that the splotches he'd wanted to look at might be gone.  
  
"I guess the owners didn't think it was a good selling point to have blood- splattered sidewalks," Cheryl said.  
  
"Yeah," Mark chuckled.  
  
Cheryl's phone rang at that moment, and so he went on toward the area and to see if there were any clues. As he'd suspected, the splotches were gone. The whole area of the sidewalk and the front stoop were snowy white. There was no evidence at all that a vicious murder had taken place here. Sam Jarvis' home looked as if it was waiting for him to return. But death had changed that. Jarvis wouldn't be back here.  
  
Mark sighed and turned away. As he did so, a smile broke out over is face as a familiar form approached. It was Andy Keffer. The lawn guy.  
  
"Dr. Sloan, what are you doing here?" He grinned as he approached. "I thought you had an appointment this morning? You didn't cancel didja? Findley was all ready to go out there."  
  
Mark winced. "Oh, Andy, I completely forgot about it!" A quick glance at his watch revealed that it was probably already too late. The man should have been there five minutes prior. "But my son is there. Do you think that would be okay?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sure it will," Andy smiled reassuringly at him. "Are you investigating what happened here?" He gestured toward Jarvis' door.  
  
"Yes, I am. Did you know him?" Mark asked.  
  
"Not really." Andy shook his head, then smiled mischievously. "You aren't going to get arrested today are you?"  
  
Mark laughed. "Well, I certainly hope not." He gestured toward Cheryl who was still involved in her conversation. "She's a police officer, and I came with her this time." Mark leaned in, and continued, "I think she's got my back."  
  
Andy laughed at Mark's use of the slang terminology. "You're a cool dude, Doc. But I've gotta get back to work. See ya round."  
  
Mark raised a hand, bidding him goodbye. "Take care, Andy." He watched the young man move lankily back toward his equipment, thinking that he reminded him just a little of Steve when he was that age.  
  
Steve. He reached for his cell phone, figuring that better late than never would have to do for warning his son of the appointment. At least he had been feeling much better that morning, so his conscience was eased a little at causing him to have to deal with the abrupt Findley.  
  
He'd just started to dial when Cheryl approached. He held off on the call, noting her expression. He hoped she didn't have to go off on another assignment. He wasn't sure where the murder of Jeff Johansen had taken place, he would need her to show him. Or perhaps Amanda.  
  
"That was Sternen," she said, referring to the new detective. "The lab is done with the prints. He's going through all of the names for the ones that were in the system, just in case, and comparing it to the list of everyone even remotely associated. You wouldn't know why Steve wanted to know about the north corner would you?"  
  
Mark was confused. "The north corner of what?"  
  
"Your gate out back. When I told him that CSU didn't find the bullet, but they had pulled prints off your gate, he asked if they would go through those on the north corner first."  
  
"I really have no idea, Cheryl." Mark frowned, troubled. "He didn't mention anything to me."  
  
"Okay." Cheryl accepted his answer. "Maeve's lawyer is chomping at the bit to put this thing to bed. The Captain has already gotten a call. Apparently her family is well connected. You wanna head over there and finish up?"  
  
~*~  
  
Steve found himself in the same position that his dad had been in earlier. Sitting on the deck, pouring over the information in front of him. The feeling of trouble had intensified the more he'd thought about it. He'd even strapped on his gun and badge, definitely not something he normally did at home.  
  
Becoming frustrated with the Jarvis folder, he switched back to the envelope from the lawn service. He wasn't really convinced that he was going to find anything in it as to what was bothering him, but he was willing to try.  
  
The first pages were about the company philosophy. It was overblown business propaganda, and it made his head hurt to read through it all. But near the back of the brochure, he found a separate sheet slipped in between the pages. 'References' was printed across the top in boldface. The update date was a recent one.  
  
He quickly scanned down the list. M. Michaels Real Estate. Garden Brook Golf Course. He visually tripped over the third name down. Palm Terrace Condominiums. Sam Jarvis' home had been in Palm Terrace Condominiums. A trickle of adrenaline began to flow through his system, but he controlled it, making a little mark beside the name as he continued.  
  
The fourth name gave him pause as well, but he wasn't sure why. Fairview Apartments. The address stated that they were located on Fairview Rd. The answer was on the tip of his mind when he was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.  
  
~*~  
  
While Cheryl entered the house, Mark wandered through the decorative wooden fencing that separated the back yard from the driveway. He was unsurprised to find that the beautiful landscaping continued even though this portion of the property wasn't visible to public view. Even the back yard wasn't truly visible. The property butted up against the far end of a golf course which was screened by a dense growth of trees and a tall chain link fence. But even the fence seemed to be a part of the overall scheme of the back yard. Findley had truly done an excellent job; a real labor of love.  
  
Suddenly a thought occurred to him. He winced, remembering that he hadn't actually gotten around to calling Steve. It was probably far too late, now. After all, how long could it take to do an estimate? And as Steve hadn't called him to complain, he suspected that things were okay.  
  
He turned away from the fencing, and headed toward the patio off the master bedroom. Crime scene tape surrounded the whole of the area, but he simply stepped under it. The curtains moved a fraction in his peripheral vision and he noted Cheryl looking outward. She pulled the curtains wider and waved at him. He smiled and waved back before getting down to the business of checking out the area.  
  
There were a couple of lounge chairs and a table as well as the plants. As he looked down at the cement beneath his feet, he noted dark brown-green splotches against the otherwise light colored surface. He could almost hear the mental clicks as things began to fall into place in his mind. The splotches were Findley's special blend of fertilizer. That was what he'd seen in the picture at Sam Jarvis' place. Then there was Andy to make that connection as well. But Andy had also told him that Maeve had gotten Findley a big contract with some apartments on Fairview. Jeff Johansen had been killed on Fairview Rd. He was willing to bet that he lived in Fairview Apartments.  
  
As he stood to go talk to Cheryl, for confirmation, he heard her voice. But it sounded tiny and artificial. She was obviously talking with someone at the precinct. Mark followed the sound to the box that was mounted to the wall of the patio and suddenly realized that it belonged to the intercom system. It must have been stuck on. A feeling of anxiety began.  
  
He looked through the glass doors toward Cheryl and noted that she was standing near a blue chaise recliner. He recalled Steve sharing with him the conversation that he had with Maeve the day they'd discovered that she'd known Sam Jarvis. He'd mentioned in a dry tone that she'd sat in her favorite blue chair and told her friend Carla everything.  
  
He looked from the chair to the broken intercom to the splotches on the patio. A chill ran through his heart when he next recalled whom he'd invited to his home that very morning. His eyes met up with Cheryl's, and when he saw the worry in her gaze, he new that she had something to tell him, and it wasn't good. Anxiety gave way to out right fear.  
  
~*~  
  
"Steve Sloan." Steve answered the phone a bit distractedly. It had rang while he went through the rest of the list of references. Because he hadn't thought to bring the cordless out to the deck with him, he'd had to go back into the den to answer it.  
  
He looked up through the clear glass to see that Findley was standing on the deck, holding a clipboard. He was looking down at the things that Steve had been going over. His eyes locked with the man's for a moment, but then his attention was quickly drawn away at what Cheryl was telling him.  
  
"We think Vincent Findley is somehow involved in this. His fingerprints were on the north corner of your fence. He was in the system because 5 years ago he was arrested for stalking and attempted assault. If he's there, be very careful, and don't try . . . ."  
  
Cheryl's words faded to the background. It suddenly all made sense in Steve's mind. The figure he had seen that morning last week looking at him through binoculars. He would bet a week's wages that it had been Findley. He glanced back out toward the deck. He caught a blur of motion as the man disappeared off the deck.  
  
"He's running!" Steve called into the phone before he dropped it and took off after the man. His body was stiff and sluggish, but he made good time weaving through the furniture and out onto the deck. He pulled his gun as he started down the steps, hearing the sound of Findley's booted feet as he jogged toward the front of the house.  
  
Steve was starting to feel winded by the time he got around to the driveway and saw Findley climbing into a truck with the company logo on it. He raised his gun. "Stop, or I'll shoot!" he ordered.  
  
Steve sighed when Findley ignored him and dove into the truck. Steve headed for his own truck which was parked in front of Findley's. The darker vehicle revved and was pulling out of the driveway by the time Steve retrieved his spare key from the wheel well. He had no intention of letting this killer get away. He realized that it had probably been this man who had taken a shot at him. He wasn't going to give him another chance to get it right. He started the truck and accelerated out of the driveway after him.  
  
Fortunately, PCH wasn't overly busy at the moment. They had managed to find the lull in the noontime rush. Steve had no problems spotting Findley's truck speeding away ahead of him. Steve had the advantage of more horsepower in his engine and found that he was gaining on the smaller vehicle.  
  
His cell phone rang as he closed the distance. He reached for it, knowing that it would be Cheryl. She'd probably be furious that he'd dropped the phone on her. "Yeah, Cheryl," he answered. "Kinda busy right now."  
  
He was right. She started in on him, but he cut her off.  
  
"I'm heading south along PCH, just pass our place. Findley's just ahead of me, driving a beige truck with the company logo on it. License plate number is . . . Highway patrol shouldn't have any problem picking him out if they've got someone near Arrowhead Point who can back track this way."  
  
Cheryl made somewhat agreeable sounds and then there was a shuffling and Steve heard his father's voice on the phone.  
  
"Steve, be --" He only caught the first bit of what Mark was saying as he and Findley were approaching an area where the road made a sharp turn. Signs warned of the curve where the pavement continued on to the left, but the land dropped off a short sandy overlook into a shallow run-off below. Findley was going to have to slow down at least a little if he was planning on make it through the turn.  
  
"Give me a minute, Dad," he spoke quickly into the phone before throwing it on the seat beside him, knowing that he would need both hands to stay in control of the vehicle. A satisfied smile settled over his features as Findley tapped at his brakes. His gun was also on the seat beside him. If he could get alongside the other truck, he could probably compel him to pull over. If they made it to a clear, safe portion of the highway, he might even try to blow out his tires.  
  
Glad of the plan, he tapped his brakes to slow as well. There was no response. His heart stopped as the pedal went all the way to the floor with little resistance and the vehicle only seemed to be gaining speed as the road declined toward the curve.  
  
Time seemed to slow as he watched helplessly as events began to unfold. He was going too fast, he wasn't going to be able to stop. And he was too close to Findley for the man to get out of the way. The distance between the two vehicles narrowed. He thought he saw Findley's hands go up just before his larger Ford plowed into the back of the lawn truck.  
  
There was a sickening, loud crunch first as they collided and then as Findley's automobile slammed through the thin metal barrier. It plunged out into open air. Steve knew for a certainty that his would follow. There was nothing he could do as his vehicle seemed to topple slowly over the side, inexorably following the one before it. 


	14. Part Fourteen

Chapter 14: Hero's Complex  
  
Cheryl had just finished putting the call through on the radio when Mark suddenly seemed to stiffen beside her. His face had blanched of all color, and he sat stunned, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He clutched the phone so tightly that his knuckles shown white against his skin.  
  
A shiver of fear arrowed through her, sending her heart into her stomach. Before the thought had fully formed to ask him what happened, he began yelling into the phone.  
  
"Steve! Steve, are you there? Steve answer me!" His voice trembled with a panic totally uncharacteristic of his usual optimistic nature.  
  
"Mark! What happened? What's wrong?!" His reactions only sharpened her worry. But Mark didn't seem to hear her, and continued to try to get a response from Steve.  
  
Cheryl focused the emotions that were edging toward panic. This was no time for falling apart. Things could happen in an instant, she'd learned that from long years on the police force, and those experiences served in helping to gain control of the situation.  
  
"Mark, I need you to tell me what happened." Her voice was calmer. And though she was inclined to pull to the side of the road, she pushed her foot harder into the accelerator, instead. She also turned on her grill lights, alerting the rest of the light traffic that she was a police woman on a mission. There was really only one thing that she could think of that would send Mark into such a state. And if something bad had happened to Steve, she needed to get the both of them to him as soon as she could. Every second counted. She was still several minutes from the beach house, and judging from the information that Steve have given her, he was a little beyond it and moving fast in the opposite direction.  
  
"Steve . . . ." Mark's next attempt to get his son's attention was spoken more softly, and there was a shuddering, defeated quality to his voice.  
  
Warring with her own fear and worry, and trying to keep an eye on the road ahead, she reached a hand toward Mark's arm. "Dr. Sloan, please tell me what happened? What happened to Steve?" She hoped that the professional title would help him to refocus.  
  
He looked toward her, his blue eyes stark against his pale face. "I think he just when off a cliff. My son just drove off a cliff." He sounded like he didn't quite believe it himself.  
  
Cheryl didn't want to even pretend that it was possible. Nothing against Mark, but she needed more than a father's fear. She needed proof. "When? How could you tell?" The words came out more sharply than she intended, but Mark didn't seem to notice.  
  
He muttered the answer in a dazed voice as he stared down at the phone. "I could hear it. I heard a sound like the phone dropping, then a metal crunch and more rustling sounds and then complete silence. Then I heard Steve say 'oh God' and then there was a continuous loud crash that went on until the connection went dead."  
  
Cheryl tried not to panic, but Mark's fear was contagious. She knew how treacherous the coast roads could be. And what Mark had described didn't sound good at all. "How can you be sure it was a cliff, and not just an accident?"  
  
"Because you said Arrowhead Point!" Mark insisted. "There is a sheer, three hundred foot drop onto the rocks at Arrowhead!"  
  
She might not be completely familiar with Malibu, but she knew what Steve had told her. It wouldn't make sense for him to tell her that reinforcements should be sent where he already was if they were trying to trap Findley between them. "He wasn't there, Mark! He said that the highway patrol should start there so they could back track to meet him."  
  
It took a moment for those words to soak in, and Mark seemed to calm a little by small measures. Some of the strain seemed to drop away as a bit of hope entered his expression. "Maybe it was the Dunstan Curve then," he said softly, thoughtfully. "It's not far from the beach house."  
  
Cheryl nodded. "How close are we?"  
  
"We should see it in about a minute." Mark was significantly more together, but his voice was still tight with worry. The phone was still clutched in his hand, the last link that he'd had to Steve.  
  
She urged him to call in medical assistance, just in case. If she was wrong, she would take the heat. If she was right, she might be buying a person very dear to her more time.  
  
~*~  
  
His first real sensation was a ballooning pain in his head that rapidly seemed to echo through the rest of his body. It felt as if he had been battered from the inside out. The next was the wetness. Something was dripping on his forehead, something warm and smelling of decay. The smell got his eyes open, despite the mild spinning sensation that had existed even when they had been closed.  
  
He squinted against the eerie lighting, and took a careful breath, hoping that by moving as little as possible he could keep the nausea and pain at bay. For the first few moments he was unable to comprehend where he was. The world seemed out of kilter and the wrong color entirely.  
  
Then he realized that he was in his truck, and that the vehicle itself must have been lying on its side with the driver's side toward the ground. The windshield hadn't broken out of its mooring, but the glass had splintered and fractured in several places. It was covered with greenish, algae-filled water and bits of sand, making what light shown into the cab tinged the color of creamed spinach. Not exactly his favorite food. It only added to the roiling edge of nausea that plagued him. Water was dripping along what now acted as the roof, falling onto his head. A slight stinging along his scalp registered with the next drop.  
  
He made to reach for his head, only to find that his body, still buckled into the seatbelt, was pressing against his left arm. The attempted movement was a bad idea as it caused a bolt of pain to shoot through the appendage.  
  
Memories began to return. He remembered that after his truck had gone over the edge at Dunstan Curve it had rolled a bit to the side before it splashed down into the reservoir. He wasn't sure of all of the events that had taken place after that. But he couldn't forget the horrible gut- wrenching feel of the vehicle flipping over before hanging suspended on two tires. He didn't remember it completing its journey to come to a stop with the driver's side pressed into the muck. Muck that was creeping slowly into the cab beneath him. He needed to get out of the truck.  
  
Sluggishly he reached for the unlocking mechanism on the seatbelt. Something hard was settled against it. He knew immediately that it was his gun. And then he remembered something else that he needed to do.  
  
Grabbing onto the gun, he carefully unwrapped the restraining harness from around his body and then looked upward at the passenger's side door. That was his only way out. So, holding his left arm rigidly to the side, he began the arduous task of working his legs out from beneath the dash. Motion awakened new pains, as the entire left side of his body objected strenuously. But he pressed on, continuing until he managed a standing position on the driver's side window. Trying to ignore the unstable feel of the door beneath his feet, he slipped his gun into his holster and reached upward.  
  
The passenger door was harder to push open as gravity, and a whole host of other natural laws weren't on his side. But he managed it, climbing up and through the opening. He was panting by the time he reached the top. There was nothing to do but to jump down into the muck then. The landing was exceedingly unpleasant. His legs would not hold him and he splashed face first into the stagnant waters and came up coughing, which sent fire through his midsection and the nausea into overdrive.  
  
Great, just great. He knew without a doubt that he had suture issues again. Jesse was going to kill him. He waited, just a moment, on one trembling hand and shaky knees, for both the rushing sound in his head and the queasiness to settle down a bit. Thankfully, the darkish water was only elbow deep in that position.  
  
Then he looked up and out and froze. Findley's truck was near the edge of the small natural watery reservoir, having come to rest just yards from the edge. Dunstan Curve overlooked the area which was little more than an acre sized oasis of water, greenery and sand. The greenery consisted of small trees, bushes and grasses which grew just off the road and down a step hill which dropped to a level where waters gathered in a natural depression of sand. Beyond the sand, rock was visible before dropping steeply off into the ocean. If ramming Findley's truck hadn't slowed him, he might have landed on the rocks and tumbled over the sheer fall into the Pacific.  
  
The thought only increased his nausea. As it was, Findley's truck had only just missed the less forgiving rocky portion of the area. But it was completely upside down, and the front end was buried in the water. Suddenly there was moment as Findley's head appeared from beneath the surface of the water, followed by weak coughing and sputtering.  
  
Adrenaline flooded Steve's system as he pushed himself to his feet, then almost immediately collapsed again when his left foot seemed indifferent to his brain's demand to stand. He tried again, only slightly more slowly, and succeeded in limp/staggering the distance to Findley's side, where he sank onto his knees in the waters.  
  
Findley's eyes were closed, and his skin was parchment white, but he appeared at least partially conscious as he was propping himself up out of the water with one elbow. Steve didn't need to be a doctor to know that the man was in a lot worse shape than he was. His breathing wasn't good, and he was sure that the man wasn't going to be able to hold his position for much longer.  
  
For a second he wasn't sure what to do. Suspecting a crush injury, and who knew what else, he knew that moving him before legitimate medical help arrived was a bad idea. Letting the man drown seemed an even worse one.  
  
Maneuvering himself carefully, he settled into the liquid and eased his right leg beneath Findley's head, allowing the man to at least breathe without the fear of inhaling water.  
  
At his touch, Findley's eyes creaked open, slightly glazed, but intense. "My legs . . . trapped."  
  
Steve opened his mouth to respond, but found instead that Findley seemed to split into doubles and everything faded out for a second and then re- resolved. Steve shook his head to clear it. "I can't help you with that right, now," he managed after a second. "If I move you're going to drown."  
  
"Let me . . . . It's only . . . fitting."  
  
Steve didn't agree. Findley was going to face justice for his crimes if he had anything to do with it. "Vincent Findley, you are under arrest for the murder of Adam Michaels and Tessa Cohen. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right . . . . " He made it through the recitation of the Miranda Rights on auto-pilot. With the decrease of adrenaline, his own injuries were making themselves known again.  
  
The entire left side of his body was on fire. A myriad of cuts along that portion of his body sang out against the dirty water that was seeping into them. He also suspected that he might have done some sort of damage to his left foot. The ache there was constant, and the pain in his abdominal region was intensifying. He had a sinking feeling that it might be a little worse than problems with sutures. Sitting stiffly upright wasn't helping the situation.  
  
"Do you understand these rights as they've been explained to you?" he asked, slightly breathless as he moved his gun from its holster and shoved it into the back of his pants.  
  
Findley looked up at him. "Yes," he whispered. He seemed to look off at nothing before focusing back on him. "She's holding . . . the light . . . for me."  
  
Steve frowned down at the man, wondering if he had suffered some kind of brain injury that was impairing his mental faculties. He couldn't tell either way by looking into the intent gaze. He looked up and around, and as if on cue, he heard the sound of sirens and distant voices.  
  
He could make out flashing lights up on the highway. He couldn't be sure, but he thought two of the people moving past what remained of the guardrail looked liked his father and Cheryl. They both started down the side of the decline and began weaving their way through a profusion of bushes and trees.  
  
"Help is coming," Steve looked down and told Findley.  
  
"Have to save her . . . " Findley replied.  
  
"What? Save who?" That seemed an odd thing to say. Even delirious. Had someone else been in Findley's truck? But as the man continued on, Steve put the words down to just ramblings.  
  
"Had to make you stop hurting her!" Findley accused. "Had to . . . slay the dragons." He continued to mumble words that Steve had trouble making out. But what he did catch was enough to convince him that Findley might be a couple crayons short a whole box.  
  
"Is that why you decided to kill Jarvis?" Steve asked. The vague idea played in the back of his mind that he might somehow have discovered that Jarvis had hurt Maeve, and that it had set off the string of murders. Jarvis had been the first one to die, after all.  
  
As Steve looked down at the man awaiting a response, he began to feel disconnected. He noticed that the man's lips moved, but he couldn't make out what the words meant.  
  
He focused dazedly up, hoping for some point of reference. But the rushing sound was back, and seemed to be growing louder and louder. His head began to feel heavy and weave as if his neck was made of rubber and could no longer support it. The brightness of the day yellowed around the edges.  
  
He could just make out the blurred images of Cheryl and his father hurrying toward him. They seemed so far away, yet their faces seemed close and taut with concern. He couldn't wrap his mind around precisely why that was. He only knew that they were fading away. And then everything tilted. He thought he saw the sky careening past, the quick initial buoyancy of a splash into water, and then green closed in around him as he inhaled something sharp and acrid. 


	15. Part Fifteen

**Chapter 15: Heroes **

Cheryl thought that her heart might stop when Steve just seemed to slump bonelessly over into the water. In far too short a span of time his head went completely under. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Mark to see that, and she didn't take time to look. 

Where she had been moving at a jog, she put on a burst of speed taking the remains of the decline down into the relative shallow waters at breakneck speed. She had no intention of getting so close, only to see him drown before her eyes. She wouldn't let that happen to his father, either. 

The time to reach the water's edge seemed interminable. She splashed into the shallow waters and found herself confronted with an odd situation. Steve was laying on his side, beneath the water, very still. Findley, coughing and sputtering, seemed to have propped himself up on Steve's legs, thus remaining above water.

She needed to roll Steve in order to get him out of the greenish liquid, but that would be difficult without potentially drowning Findley. Not that the idea didn't have its share of merit, considering. 

Mark splashed into the water right behind her, ending the dilemma. He immediately went for Steve's shoulders, turning him while Cheryl quickly re-adjusted Findley's position. The irony wasn't lost on her that a murderer's life was being saved by an individual who was dedicated to ensuring that he was punished. Considering the nature of the crimes, Findley could likely be up for the death penalty.  

Once Findley was again resting across Steve's legs, Cheryl moved quickly to his shoulders to hold onto Steve in similar manner so that Mark could examine him. They had been no words spoken as they'd worked. It was as if they had both known what needed to be done and did it. Mark's movements were almost mechanical, as if he had been programmed to show no emotion, only to do the job. 

She didn't need to hear him say the words to know that Steve wasn't breathing. Thankfully, he still had a pulse. Mark began artificial respiration. It was odd to feel his lungs expanding and releasing while his father blew a breath into him. And then another. And another. Suddenly she felt another kind of movement, almost a rippling. 

"Mark." She spoke his name, but before either of them could react further, Steve began to cough as his body attempted to expel the water that had entered his lungs. His head was quickly turned to the side so that the liquid could drain away. 

The sound of the approaching footfalls as the EMTs entered the water drew Cheryl's attention, at which point the scene began to bustle with activity. She quickly identified herself and Steve as LAPD, and the man trapped beneath the truck as a man who was going to be placed under arrest. 

Mark spoke up as well, a bit gruff-voiced, and explained that Steve was a near-drowning, and had not been checked for other injuries, also that a loss of consciousness had led to his going under the water. The first EMTs acknowledged them as he quickly went to work on Steve, while the other man started on Findley.  

In short order, Steve was strapped onto a stretcher and moved out of the water. The whirring sound of an approaching MedEvac chopper quickly followed. When Cheryl looked back down after it lifted into the sky carrying both Mark & Steve, she was surprised at the amount of equipment and number of personnel on scene as they began the work of disentangling their murder suspect. She started to read him his rights, at which point he informed her that the detail had already been taken care of by Detective Sloan. 

~*~

Jesse  was standing by when the gurney carrying Steve was brought in. The usual adrenaline rush that kicked in when he was working a trauma flowed through him. It allowed him to ignore the worry for a close friend who had been injured and to get on with the work of helping him to heal. He spared a glance in Mark's direction, noting that his expression was stark with worry and his clothing damp and stained. But despite that, he seemed to have no immediately visible physical injuries. He expected Amanda to be down at any moment, and trusted that she would assure that Mark was okay.

She appeared before he completed the thought and moved to Mark's side, leaving Jesse to listen to the stats from the transferring EMTs while he did a quick exam of his own. Steve was unconscious and in shock. There was a dark bruise along his left temple, oozing blood. But his pupil response was encouraging. 

"Let's get him to Trauma One!" he ordered, continuing his examination as he moved alongside the gurney. "I need an abdominal series and a head CT," he called in response to the rigidness in Steve's abdomen. He added several other tests as he noted the swelling and darkening bruises which ran the length of the left side of his body. One side of his trousers had been cut away, and then there was the matter of the green stains that had drenched his still damp clothing. 

His shirt had also been cut open, revealing the dirty, blood stained bandage that he had only just changed the day before. It too was tinted the same green that was on Steve's clothing. He wasn't sure that he wanted to know what it was, and the faint smell that accompanied it wasn't overly reassuring. 

Jesse sighed internally. _Okay, buddy. Let's get you fixed up. Having reached Trauma One, he initiated the move from the EMT gurney to the one in the room. Focusing on his patient, he began the work of helping his friend back to health. _

~*~ 

_It was dark, and the smoke billowed all around him, seeking to still his breath, his very life. But he knew that he had to keep going. He had to save them. There was still time. Wasn't there? Confused, he ran on, coughing and sputtering as the noxious fumes seemed to burrow their way into his lungs. He felt the world graying around the edges, knew that he was a goner, felt himself falling, the painful sting of failure settling over his heart. _

_Suddenly, he splashed down. The waters were up over his head. His eyes flew open in the green-tinted darkness. It burned into his retinas but that was all he had. The air had been stolen from his lungs. If he was to breath, he had to make it to the surface. He could just see the light up above. He kicked his legs, struggling to make his way toward it. _

_But then the voices came. It was that song again. The smoke and the voices. Those cries of the innocents. He looked backward and down into the mire. There just beneath him were the two beautiful girls. They stared at him with unblinking, dead stares, blonde hair floating wraith-like about them in the green brine. But their lifeless eyes called to him, trusting in him to save them. Every moment in the water drained a bit of life from him. They would take more, still. Yet, he couldn't leave them. _

_The mire pulled more and more heavily against him as he descended. It pressed into his chest, weighing him down with impossible burdens. Still he drew them close and started up again. But the drag was too much. The light above seemed to be receding away. He felt as if he was going backward. _

_Frantically kicking his legs, he worked harder, struggling. There was no more air! He had to reach the light. He had to draw breath. Then he was entangled. Something was grabbing at his legs, preventing their motions. _

_He looked downward, fighting the rising panic, the deepening need to have fresh air. The fringes of the girls' dresses had become green and vine like. They were wrapping around and around their legs, keeping him from moving. He looked up into their faces and registered shock. _

_The once blue eyes had turned green and morphed into the features of a man. A man with a gun. A man who had killed four people. The gun went off, sending a soundless concussion through the water. It exploded into his chest, knocking him backward and away. He was free-falling. From a far distance the ocean released a mournful cry as the ground rushed up to meet him. _

Steve's eyes shot open, and his chest heaved. It took several moments for him to realize that he was on the deck in a lounge chair. The sun was bright overhead, shining late-morning warmth onto the beach front. He took a deep breath, pulling himself together. It had been a dream. Just a dream. A sound at the door leading to the den area drew his attention. Without turning his head, he knew who it was. 

"I'm fine, Dad." The words seemed to simply pour from his lips, without thought. It had been five days since he had gone off the road at Dustan Curve, nearly a week since Vincent Findley had been taken into custody for the murders of Adam Michaels, Tessa Cohen, Sam Jarvis and Jeff Johansen.  Steve had spent much of that time in Community General fighting a raging infection. He'd been allowed home the day before, and since that time his father had seemed to be hovering more than usual. 

"I'm sure you are, Steve. I just thought I heard you say something." 

Steve noted the humor that Mark had tried to inject into the words, but he also caught the edge of worry. He turned carefully, fighting the stiffness and aches which remained from the surgery to repair his spleen and still healing fractured ribs. "I'm maybe a little hungry," he said, not willing to talk about the dream. Though it had taken on a disturbing new tone, he'd gotten past it before and he would again. 

"Okay. One early lunch, coming right up." Though Mark smiled, he gave him a considering look before he headed back into the house. 

Steve sighed. He had a feeling that he wasn't going to be able to hold his father off for much longer. So much had happened, and they hadn't had a chance to talk about it. He thought back to the day, two days prior, when he had woken up well enough to be cognizant of his surroundings. 

_"Steve . . . " The sound of his dad's voice penetrated the thinning mists as he opened his eyes and slowly focused on the room around him. He easily recognized the room in one of the wards at Community General. If he concentrated his tired mind, he could even name some of the machines that sat nearby. But he couldn't say what it was that had brought him there. _

_"Dad . . . what happened?" He asked in a raspy-voiced plea for information. And why was he so wiped out? He felt as if he might drop off at any minute and sleep for a hundred years. _

_"You've been very sick, son," his father said, resting a gentle hand on his arm. _

_Steve was surprised to find that it was in a sling. Other things came to his attention, like the bandaging on his left foot and lower leg. There was also a generalized pain that seemed to start in his mid-section and radiate outward. _

_"You've been in and out," Mark continued. "What is the last thing you remember before waking up just now?"  _

_Steve broke off in the cataloguing of his injuries and looked at his father. He focused his mind backward, dredging for past thoughts. He remembered chasing Findley, he remembered driving, he remembered going over Dunstan Curve. . . . The memory of that moment still had the power to shake him._

_"I was chasing Findley," he said finally. "I remember crashing into the back of his truck, but not much after that." A dozen questions popped into Steve's mind, all vying for immediate answers. But his father side-tracked him. _

_"That was three days ago." _

_"Three days?" Steve was stunned. Despite feeling so drained, he worked up the strength to exclaim, "I've been out of it for three days!?"   
  
_

_Mark patted his hand in a calming gesture. "You were very sick, Steve. Your truck landed in that nasty green water off Dunstan Curve. Even with internal injuries, a broken foot, fractured ribs and a concussion, you managed to save Findley from drowning, and read him his rights." There was the slightest bit of exasperated amusement in Mark's tone. _

_Steve frowned. He didn't remember any of that. "So we got him?" he asked. _

_"We got him," Mark assured him. "But you swallowed some of that water, and it got into some of the injuries you received in the accident. Jesse began a course of broad-spectrum antibiotics, but still it was a hard road. Your body was already weakened from the gunshot - which Findley confessed to, by the way. He also confessed to tampering with your brake lines. Although, he hadn't intended to be any where around the next time you tried to drive." _

_"There's karma for you," Steve said, still trying to take it all in. He could see the strain on Mark's face despite his smiling countenance, and knew that while he had been fighting the infection, his father had been there right beside him, wearing himself out. As he expected, Mark smiled agreeably at his attempt at humor. _

_"Cheryl has been by to see you everyday. But she's already left. She wants you to know that there is an iron-clad case against Findley. They found the gun at his home. Along with drawings that speak of his obsession with Maeve. He actually created comic book stories involving the two of them." _

_Mark paused for a moment as if debating how to continue. He drew in a breath, then continued, "You were in them. The Michaels' had an intercom system that was stuck in the on position which gave Findley an opportunity to hear Maeve's side of all of those conversations she had with Carla about her . . . . er . . . adventures. He viewed you as one of the ones who had hurt her. When he heard her telling Carla about what Jarvis had done, it seemed to have pushed him over the edge, so to speak. He started acting out the things that he'd written about in his stories. He drew her as a Greek goddess, and himself as her protector, trying to save her from those who wished to harm her." _

_Steve nodded, saddened by the entire situation. Suddenly the exhaustion seemed too much, but he had another question. "He's not going to be able to stand trial, is he?" _

_"I'm afraid not, son. He has other issues that need to be addressed first." _

_Steve figured as much. "How's Maeve taking it?" _

_"I think she's going to be fine. She brought you this." Mark held aloft a plant sitting nearby. "There was a very nice card, too." _

_Steve looked toward the plant, noticing the way it blurred around the edges. "That's very nice, Dad . . . ." he managed. His own voice seemed to be coming from far away, and he knew that sleep was inevitable. Just before his mind tripped completely over the edge, it occurred to him to wonder if his father had been opening and reading all of his cards. _

Steve blinked away the memories at the sound of another step at the door leading out onto the deck. Figuring it was his father, he was surprised when he looked up to see someone else standing there. 

"Fred? What are you doing here?" 

"Visiting you. What does it look like I'm doing?" The other detective offered a nervous chuckle to soften the words. The stress and strain that seemed to live as a part of the man's expression had softened, and Steve realized that he again looked like the Fred Mancini that he used to know, even though he wasn't precisely sure when things had changed. 

"Well, have a seat, then." He gestured toward one of the deck chairs, a genuine smile lighting his face.  "My Dad was cooking up something for lunch. I'm sure he'll be bringing some out for you, too. You hungry?" 

Fred patted his gut. "Trying to cut back." 

Steve scoffed. "Trust me, my dad only knows how to make the healthy stuff. I've tried to corrupt him, but he just won't be turned." 

Mancini laughed a little. Then, casting a glance over Steve's arm, still crooked across his abdomen, though he wasn't wearing the sling, and down toward the foot that was propped a little on a cushion, "So, how you healing?"

"I'm good." Steve nodded. 

"Well, I hate to tell you this, Pal. But going over a cliff after a perp isn't exactly mentioned in the LAPD bad-guy apprehension book of etiquette." 

"I didn't have much of a choice about the cliff," Steve admitted. "I might have thought twice about it if I did." 

"I hear that. But you got your man and lived to tell about it. So, it's all good. You even got another write-up in the paper. They called you a hero and everything." 

"You're kidding." Steve hadn't known about that. No one had told him. In their worry about him, he wondered if his dad, Jesse and Amanda had even noticed. 

Fred shook his head and laughed. "Figures. They must be right about you after all. The unsung protector of the innocent and not-so-innocent, yadda, yadda, yadda." 

Steve was starting to feel a bit embarrassed. "Come on, Fred. Let it rest. I'm no hero, I'm just a cop, just like you, trying to do my job." 

Fred sobered. "Hey, in case I didn't tell you. I'm sorry about . . . everything. I was having some trouble at home, and, I got the mistaken idea that you had added to it. There was a lot of other stress too, what with that kidnapping case, and all. And then you got that award. . . ." Fred shrugged. "What else can I say? I'm sorry." 

"There's nothing to apologize for. Those were hard times. I'm glad things are better for you, now." 

"Yeah. They are." Fred looked out to the ocean for a moment, then back. "You know, you didn't crack under all that strain. And you deserved that award they gave you. You did all the hard stuff, and you didn't have to." 

Steve blew out a breath, the memory of the dream descending upon him. He'd stowed the plaque, the certificate and the check away in a drawer. He hoped to someday store the memories away, too. "I was just doing my job," he insisted, ready for the conversation to be dropped. 

"So, what are you doing to do with the money?" Fred teased. "Buy a boat or something?" 

Steve really didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Can we just drop this conversation? Maybe enjoy the scenery?" 

"Hey. What's this?" Fred scooted closer. "I hit a nerve, huh?" 

Steve shook his head. "No nerve, Mancini. I just don't want to talk about that case anymore." 

"Come on, I spilled my guts to you. I even apologized, for Pete's sake. To you. A kid I trained. So, are you going to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to mop up your father's deck with your sorry behind?" 

Steve half-chuckled. Typical Fred. He shook his head and started talking. "It's that whole award thing. But what about the two girls that died? They were hardly mentioned during that entire ceremony. That isn't right. I was doing my job. I shouldn't profit from their deaths." 

"You weren't profiting from their deaths, Sloan. You were being rewarded for a job well done. You set an example for other officers coming through the ranks." 

Steve shook his head. "Whatever. It still feels like blood money to me." 

Fred made an exasperated sound. "So what's the problem? Donate the money to a missing children's charity in their names. Heck, start you own. Nobody says how you have to spend it on yourself!" 

Steve looked at Fred and blinked. Why had that idea never occurred to him? Suddenly he felt lighter. He smiled at his friend. "Thanks, Fred. That's actually a pretty good idea." 

Fred chuckled. "I know. I'm smart like that. I trained you, didn't I?" 

~*~

Night had long since fallen, and Mark was returning to the den after having seen Jesse and Amanda out. Aside from Steve's slow, careful movements, the evening had felt as if things were back to normal. A bit of the stress that had settled over Steve, seemed to have been lifted by Fred Mancini's visit. 

Despite the other detective's humble attitude when he'd asked to speak to Steve, Mark had been reluctant to allow the contact. But the decision to allow or not to allow the visit wasn't his to make. He had hung back a little after he'd led the man out to the deck, deciding to take his cues from Steve. His intention had been to back off when he saw that things were going okay, but it hadn't quite turned out that way. He was glad though that the two men had come to an agreement. 

Steve was dozing off in the chair when Mark entered the room. He smiled, remembering decades past when Steve was just a little boy and such occurrences would prompt him to lift him into his arms and carry him off to bed. The days of lifting his son and carrying him anywhere were long gone, but the memory of it gave Mark pleasure. 

Still enjoying the thought, he touched Steve's shoulder and shook him slightly. It wouldn't do to leave him sitting that way for much longer. He was already going to be achy in the morning from his injuries, no sense in adding to it by allowing him to stay in such a cramped position for too long. 

Steve jerked awake, his lids lifting groggily. A smile appeared and he stretched into a careful yawn. "Must had nodded off," he mumbled, blinking his eyes open. 

"Yeah, you did," Mark agreed with a chuckle. "Maybe it's time for you to turn in. It's been rather a long day." 

"Mmmm," Steve agreed, but seemed reluctant to get up from the chair. His eyes closed and his head rolled a bit to the side. 

"Come on, let's go." Mark took a hold of his arm, and gently guided him upward. 

Steve's eyes popped back open and he looked up at him and smiled. "Sorry. Feels like a school morning or something for some reason." 

"I'm sure it does," Mark laughed, helping Steve to steady himself into a standing position before he handed him the cane that had been prescribed to help him move around for the next few days. 

"Oh, Dad," Steve looked up at him as if a thought had suddenly occurred. "Can you help me find a good children's charity?" 

Mike smiled, opening the door to the guest bedroom ahead of him. Steve wasn't quite up to navigating those stairs at the moment. "Of course. Mind if we wait until tomorrow to do it?" 

"I supposed that's best," Steve agreed, stifling another yawn. 

Mark helped him to get settled and propped the cane near the beside. He then smiled down at him while Steve began to undress himself. He knew that he would want to handle that on his own. "Pleasant dreams, Son." 

Steve paused thoughtfully before he looked up at him and smiled. "I think they will be. Night, Dad." 

Mark closed the door softly behind him and headed back along the hall toward the master bedroom. He walked directly to his closet, stepped inside and pulled something down from the shelf. He then carried it with him to the bed where he sat, looking at it in the lamp light. 

It was an album, one that he had been maintaining for many years. He allowed his hand to smooth over the plain leather cover before opening it and flipping through until he found the page he was seeking. It was one near the back.

As he read again the words that had printed in the newspaper just a couple of days before, he remembered the words that Steve had said to Fred. _"I'm no hero, I'm just a cop, just like you, trying to do my job." _

Completing the article and closing the book, Mark smiled. "You'll always be a hero to me." 

 The End.

**Author's End Note: **

Of course, this story didn't follow the real story of Hero and Leander, but I thought it was an interesting little aside since it was part of the dictionary definition of Hero. If anyone is interested in learning more about the actual story of Hero and Leander (of the Greek Mythology variety) this is an excellent link, and not very long. Think of it as Cliffs Notes. J I personally found Lord Byron's actions - nearer the bottom of the page - very interesting. 


End file.
